Intervention Pending
by Mardy Lass
Summary: Just another day at the office until some unusual communications are sent in and it’s up to the head boy to break it to the boss. Can he pull some strings? Now complete. Posted first at Supernaturalville dot net.
1. Chapter 1

**_Author's Note:_**

_ I am not making light of any particular religion or faith here, just doing the old Tom Holt thing to be honest. I am not trying to offend anyone's religion or belief system. Trust me, I'm an atheist who believes everyone should just go with what they believe._

* * *

"Is that everything? What's left to do?" He asked, leaning back in His swivel chair and lifting His feet onto the desk to stretch His weary legs.

"Er… nothing awfully important, sir," Michael said gingerly, shifting the cardboard folder from one hand to the other in sheer nervousness.

"So there _is_ something. What is it?" He asked, looking at the angel in the sharp suit, admiring the ingenuity that had been employed to get wings out the back without spoiling the smooth cut.

Michael sniffed to himself, letting his eyes flick guiltily at the folder in his hand before straightening his shoulders and putting both hands behind his back decisively.

"Really, it's nothing, sir. It can wait," he said quickly.

"Bollocks can it," He said irritably, taking His feet off the desk and sitting up straight, putting a hand out for the folder. "You don't create an entire universe without knowing a moment of indecision when you see one. Come on, what is it?"

Michael cleared his throat politely.

"It rather looks like, well, that we might have a..." he began, with an amount of trepidation his boss had not seen in an angel since the Dark Ages.

"Well? Come on, out with man," He prompted.

"It's these requests, sir. We started getting a few, and we didn't think it was anything out of the ordinary. I mean, this sort of thing always happens after a loved one comes up here to claim his space, after all. We thought the amount of prayers was… touching, sir. Cute, if you will. Something to file on the '_Odds and Sods_' list, nothing more."

"And then?" He asked, waving His hand at him in a circular motion. Michael approached and lifted the folder with a slowness born of insecurity. He paused.

"And… well… They sort of snowballed, sir. They just kept coming and coming. I don't know who let the cat out of the bag, or who's been telling people what's going on in Department H, but I have to say it bears all the hallmarks of a leak." He stretched his hand out and let the folder fall into that of his boss.

He stepped back quickly as He opened the brown cardboard folder and let His eyes run over the first page.

"'_Dear God, I know I haven't been a regular church-goer or a very good Christian so far, but I want to let you know that I will be your loyal follower for all eternity if you'd just…'_" His voice trailed off as He read the rest of the prayer, His lips moving slowly. He huffed out of annoyance, then pulled the page up and read the next one. And the next one. And the next one.

"As I said, sir, not important. It can be seen to another time," Michael managed, trying to make light of it. But He was not amused.

"What in blue blazes is going on here?" He demanded angrily, looking up at Michael.

"Shall I call downstairs for a thunderbolt, sir?" he asked quickly. "Anyone pending on our Smite List?"

"Don't be ridiculous," He replied tartly. "It's hardly smiting time. Not yet, anyway." He looked back down and thought for a second. "And they're all the same?"

"Pretty much, sir. They're all asking for the same thing. And… well, we've noticed quite a worrying trend. The newest ones are… well, they're offering a _trade_, sir."

"A trade? A trade?" He demanded, astonished. "I'm the Supreme Being! The One Redeemer! The Puppy's Privates! What could they possibly offer Me?" He cried.

Michael mumbled something and He leaned forward.

"Pardon me?" He asked politely. But Michael recognised it masked an outraged anger about to erupt.

"Ah… someone on our Wanted List. Pretty high up, actually," he offered nervously.

"What number?" He asked cautiously.

"Er…" Michael flicked his gaze down to his wrist quickly, then back at his boss. "Currently? Number twelve."

"Hmm. So let me understand this…" He looked down at the file, and the first page, then back up at Michael speculatively. "All these requests, which appear to number in excess of eight hundred, and all from women-"

"And three men, sir."

"-and three men," He acknowledged, "are all asking for the same thing?"

"Ah… yes," he nodded.

"I don't understand. They want Me to personally intervene and release some…" He looked down at the file again, "some fellow called Dean Weechester from Department H?"

"_Win_chester, sir."

"Excuse me?"

"Dean_ Win_chester, sir. I think that's a typo," he added quietly, pointing a finger at the paper needlessly.

He sighed, sitting back in His chair. "And for this divine intervention they're willing to…" He flicked through the pages quickly, absorbing all the information within. "...They're willing to… return to the church, be nice to their neighbours, make up with their gay sons, stop committing adultery with the milkman, stop coveting their sister's new house, sell their soul to Me - sell their soul?" He interrupted himself. "What do they think this is, the Bad Fire? Good Me, next they'll be offering goats and first-born sons as sacrifices!" He spluttered.

"Oh those requests are at the back, sir," Michael put in helpfully. "They're the most recent. Desperation, probably."

He looked up at Michael, then back at the paper for a long moment.

"Just who is this Declan person?" He asked, incredulous.

"_Dean_, sir. Dean Winchester. He's currently residing at our Fallen One's pleasure, in Department H. He's in the special wing, sir, Solitary."

"And just how do you know this?" He demanded.

Michael raised a hand and coughed politely, keeping his eyes on the carpet. "I ah… I know a few chaps down there, sir. Helps speed up the transfer of files and souls, in case of clerical error." He looked up at his boss slowly, expecting him to be angry.

"Well, makes sense, I suppose," He sighed, and Michael breathed out a small sigh of relief. "So this David boy, what do we know about him?"

"Dean, sir. Dean Winchester. Born 1979 to a good man and his wife. The man, John, did as we bade him sir, even fulfilling the 10:41 as planned. He's one of the three men who filed a request, sir, but a little bolshy, if you ask me, playing the 'doing your work without believing is still working' card a bit strong." He paused, watching his boss' reaction closely. "Wife's got something of a question mark over her file, sir. Apparently she was scheduled to get here around 2012, but due to some kind of intervention by Department H, she was on her way here in 1983. Then due to more entanglements with Downstairs, she never actually reached us, and then-"

"What was her name?"

"Mary, sir."

"Mary! Well, that's a rum'un, and no mistake," He mused, rubbing His chin. "John and Mary. Hmm... So Mary's gone to Dept. H, eh?" He asked.

"No, sir. She never reached there, either. It took us a while to track her down after she slipped through the system and re-appeared in 2006. She was wilfully withholding, pending protection of her family, sir."

"Ah. She's a Sacrificing Soul case, is she?"

"Yes sir, it appears so. Doesn't that go in her son's favour?"

"I suppose it does," He sighed. "She'd know him best of all. Although every mother thinks her son is an angel at heart, whether he is or not." He paused. "Any other family?" He asked.

"One brother, sir. Samuel."

"Nice name. Bit judgemental, is he?" He quipped.

"Very good, sir," Michael allowed with a barely-concealed eye-roll. "Actually, he's also a bit of a grey area, sir. He's supposed to have been marked for something to do with the re-ordering of Downstairs," he said. "Of course, the people I spoke to had no idea what - it all seems to be in rather a state of flux, sir. No-one seems to know what exactly this brother Samuel is supposed to be doing. However, word is that Dean was the guiding light for him, sir. In securing a release for him, we may be keeping this Samuel on the straight and narrow in his own terms."

"John, Mary, Samuel, Dean…" He muttered to Himself. "I get 'John', and I get 'Mary', and I get 'Samuel'. But what kind of name is 'Dean'?"

"Problem, sir?"

"Oh no, just thinking out loud, old man, not to worry," He said, but his voice still sounded pre-occupied. "Dean… as in Old English? Anglo-Saxon for 'valley'? Hmm… Didn't have that name around in my time. I don't know, these new-fangled names," He sighed to Himself.

He looked up and caught the angel watching Him with admiration and open curiosity.

"Anyway, have you checked the file on these two brothers? Believers, are they?"

"No, sir. Dean appears to be an apathetic or pragmatic agnostic, although he's always used the power of our best-selling book, whether he believes it himself or not - he seems the type to judge that it doesn't matter if he believes it, as long as it works because others do. And he's always had a firm belief in Dept. H, just not us Upstairs. Very curious. Samuel has always found time to send us a five-minute thanks a day, sir. He normally asks us to look after certain people; his brother, someone called Bobby, a few girls' names here and there, and has a constant unvoiced desire to reassure John that he and his brother are coping without him. Sometimes he adds in the hope that John found Mary at some point, too. Quite a good lad, by all accounts," Michael nodded faithfully.

"So… What do you think, Michael? Do we barter and get this Dougan-"

"_Dean_, sir."

"-Dean out? So he can be his brother's keeper?"

"It seems like a good idea, sir. It's a textbook 'want-to-believe-er looking after his yet-to-fulfill-God's-Will charge' deal."

"Are you sure?" He asked, almost amused.

"Well, wasn't it you who said '_one should never look into the eyes of one's own gods_'?" Michael smiled.

"That was Kai Opaka and you know it, you wicked winged avenger," He chuckled. "Anyway, what's the rush with this Dennis?"

"_Dean_, sir."

"-Dean. What's the import of him being sent down to Dept. H?" He held up a hand to stop Michael answering for a second. "Was it his time?"

"It wasn't, sir - he wasn't due to come to us until at least 2062. It was a snaffoo, sir, by Downstairs."

"So he's not supposed to be there anyway?"

"Well… He did sell his soul, sir. Awful business, but it did skirt the edge of entrapment," he said firmly.

"Really?"

"Yes, sir. I was rather appalled at the lack of intervention by Dept. H's boss, in all truth. Shocking bit of subterfuge in order to secure a contract from a human soul. Haven't seen such tactics since Celine Dion's first record deal."

"Really?" He blurted in surprise. "Well, that changes things a little, doesn't it?"

"And to add to that, I did some checking and these two boys seems to have done us a few favours, clearing up a few of those rogue elements we talked about in last month's meeting of department heads. I believe we've seen a downturn in certain areas, such as Soul Corruption and Failing Faith. And they have managed to return a few lost souls to their rightful places," he added with a small smile.

"They repair demons to Dept. H?" He asked, prepared to be impressed but with due surprise and sufficient disbelief.

"They do, sir. Or at least, they did. Samuel doesn't seem to have done much of anything since his brother was sent down, sir. Truth be told, our boys in the Guardian Dept. say he's in a pretty bad way," he said apologetically.

"And likely to go to seed?"

"Very, sir. He's got a few friends trying to keep his chin up, but I really don't see it working for much longer," he said sadly. "Very attached to his brother, sir. He did more or less bring him up after their mother died."

"I see," He nodded seriously. "Hmm… So this Most Wanted number twelve. Who is it exactly?"

Michael's face became a little evasive suddenly, as he shifted his heavenly weight from one foot to the other. He sniffed slowly, then swallowed in a way that suggested he'd rather be anywhere else than his boss' office.

"One Bela Talbot, sir. Formerly Abby Morris."

"Wasn't she the one with the… family thing? And the deal and… and that little gun thing?" He asked vaguely.

Michael appeared to let out a tiny breath of relief, but the tension in his wings stayed.

"Ms Morris, sir. The lost one."

"Lost one?" He prompted, confused.

Michael's wings tensed further in alarm. He took a deep breath.

"She was the one supposed to be in Dept. H just six weeks ago, Earth time. She was never actually confirmed as having arrived though. Very worrying for Downstairs, as she had her own contract. It seems that either someone down there lied about the terms, or lied about the penance served according to the contract. Either way, it's a real headache, sir. We really need to track her down and ascertain which, before we make sure she gets head-counted in through the door down there."

"What! We can't have this!" He blurted, annoyed. "Why wasn't I told about this! What happens if they do this again? A contract is a contract!"

"I wasn't aware you hadn't been informed, sir," he said quickly. "I was told that Gabriel-"

"Alright, alright," he said quickly, waving his hands to quieten him. "Let's worry about the whole story later. Where is this Ms Morris now? Do we know?"

"Not at this time, sir, although I did put the word out that if any angel were to come across news, they were to apprise me immediately."

"Absolutely! This is simply not done!" He spluttered. "Of all the cheek! Lying about a contract, indeed!" He blustered to Himself for a moment, phrases like '_the very idea!_' and '_what's the cosmos coming to?_' muttered just loud enough to reach Michael's uncomfortable ears.

"I am most sorry, sir. I thought you had been informed of the situation regarding the wayward Ms Morris," he managed, his face slightly red at the thought of Him angry with anyone in The Office Upstairs.

He sat back and let out a long huff. "It's not your fault, Michael. I'll call on Gabriel later and check on the whereabouts of his report." He thought about it for a second, then looked up at Michael again, shaking His head slightly. "Can't see to every one of the six billion all the time, can we?"

"No, sir," Michael said, relieved. "So can I leave this Dean Winchester affair in your hands, sir?"

"I'll give it some thought," He allowed. "I'm quite undecided."

"Ah," Michael offered knowingly, then clamped his mouth shut. He waited, but nothing else seemed forthcoming.

He looked down at the folder under his hand, then up at the angel again. "Something else?"

"Well… no." Michael flicked his gaze down at the folder then made them dart away again guiltily. "Anything else you'd like me to do before I have the canteen close down for the evening, sir?"

He leaned back in his chair again, putting His elbows on the arms of the chair and steepling His fingers slowly. He let His head fall back and lean against the headrest as He pondered the ceiling, and why one of his best angels wanted a favour but was unable to voice it.

"When was the last time I intervened in Dept. H's affairs?" He asked.

"Er…" Michael glanced at his watch briefly. "24th November, 1991."

"Oh. Freddie, was it?"

"Yes sir, Freddie Mercury, sir. Re-patriated up here after he was abducted on his way up," he confirmed with a nod.

"And that turned out well," He mused. "But I'm not sure about this. There must have been a very good reason this Donald-"

"_Dean_, sir."

"-this Dean sold his soul in the first place. And he did do it of his own free will," He reminded him. "You're waiting for me to ask why he did it, aren't you?" He grinned suddenly.

"You know me too well, sir," Michael admitted.

"Well? Why did he do it?"

"I believe he was manipulated."

"By Downstairs?"

"By a certain rogue element from Downstairs, sir," he replied smoothly.

"Which one?"

"The one who used to be our Most Wanted number one," he grinned.

"_No!_ Really? And I missed the report on that one - disasters in Thailand to sort out and what-not. What did happen to Trouble?"

Michael gave himself a moment to take a deep breath, squaring his shoulders and letting himself enjoy the moment.

"Dean Winchester, sir. Dean Winchester happened to Trouble. We placed one of our retribution tools in the family's path a while ago. Dean Winchester shot him with it and sent him to That Place We Don't Talk About."

"Oh, really," He breathed, relaxing in His chair and smiling to Himself in a rather smug manner that only higher beings can really ever get away with. "So Trouble is stuck there, is he? For all eternity, perchance..? In torment..? Doing penance..?" He mused lightly, but the amusement in His eyes more than made up for His cool reception to the news.

"Oh yes," Michael replied with enough relish to cover five thousand hot dogs.

"Well then," He said, sitting up and reaching for the folder, opening His top drawer in the desk smartly.

Michael leaned forward slightly, watching Him pull out the red stamp and place it over the front of the file firmly. He stamped it with a snap and sat back, looking at Michael.

"Everything else in order, is it?" He asked politely. The tickled light in His eyes made Michael warm all over.

"Everything else is fine, sir. Shall I expedite the search for Ms Morris, sir?"

"I should think so, Michael," He said with withering disapproval. "I'd hate for her to turn up again. I wouldn't put it past Dept. H to pull a fast one."

Michael nodded before hesitating. "Ah… sir?" he asked quietly.

"Yes, Michael."

"Well… what if she does come floating to the surface, after all this gets shaken out?"

"Well then we do as you've outlined, Michael. We ask her politely where she's been all this time, and then hand her over to Dept. H. They have to be curious, after all," He smiled genially. "And then they'll owe us a favour. Might even get them to pay for their bar bill from last century's holiday office do, eh?"

Michael nodded and flicked his gaze down to the front of the folder. The wording of the stamp surprised him.

"_'Pass go, collect one restored life'_?" he prompted, looking up again at his boss. "No penance for his womanising ways, sir? No judgement on his life so far?"

"Well if all those requests have come from women he's met along the way, he can't have been too much of a cad, can he?" He reasoned. "A spurned, jilted, angered or hostile woman would not have offered the sort of prayers you have in those pages."

"Not to press the point, but he's not exactly a poster boy for the straight and narrow himself, sir. Just a yardstick for his brother, I fancy." He paused, but He did not respond, just watched, amused. "So no slight penance for his pragmatic agnostic ways?"

"Not yet," He said wisely, "not yet. All in good time. He still has a certain few things to do for us, don't forget. And there's Samuel to keep in check. That's penance enough for a brother, don't you think?"

"As always, I bow to your superior wisdom, sir," Michael said with a wide smile.

"Then be off with you Michael, get some work done. It seems you have to get a copy of that file Downstairs and verified so we can get this chap out, and I have to make a few calls to a few soul-restorers I know."

"Yes, sir," Michael nodded happily, nodding out of respect before backing away to the door.


	2. Chapter 2

**TWO**

The screaming, wailing sounds of sheer noise echoed round the spacious office, driving needles of pain into the ears of the single figure sat at the lone desk. Papers and folders were littered around the floor at the base of his swivel chair, his desk a jumble of stationery and Post-It notes attached to slips of paper, that were in turn stapled to A4 reports. None of which were likely to be read any time soon.

The lone figure looked up, raising his hands in resignation of the tortuous cacophony of noise and despairing of any work getting done in the next millennium.

"Why do I bother?" he sighed to himself, swinging his cloven hooves to the floor and getting up. He stretched and thought about getting a coffee. Then his mind flashed forward to the moment where he'd have it in his hand and would be looking down at it, and it'd turn his stomach. He changed his mind.

He pulled at his chair to push it closer to the desk but it snagged on a few files. He huffed in anger, flinging the chair back and kicking at the files, lashing out with a forked tail to send them dancing across the carpet.

Feeling a little better, and managing to ignore the raging wall of sound, he pulled the chair back to the desk and sat firmly, determined to make some headway against the growing pile of reports and paperwork.

He leaned forward to look at the new laptop he'd procured through some generous lying and imaginative profit-return forms. It looked back at him, and somehow it almost seemed amused to find the acting-executive officer of Department H scrutinising it as if it could give answers by sure force of will.

He opened it up and sat back, watching it go through its little rigmarole of booting up. When it was ready he bent closer and pressed the keys hopefully, trying to gain access to the intranet for the department.

His password was rejected. He tried again, the evil curl to his lip suggesting that it really should just knuckle down and obey. Again he was denied access. For good measure, the laptop decided to spit out a Blue Screen of Death and demand to be shut down.

"You little--!" He clenched his needle-sharp teeth and fought the impulse to throw it across the room. For now. "I bet Upstairs' computers don't do this!" he growled. "How could they, when they probably all have Macs? '_Oh look at me'_," he mimicked in a tiny voice, waving jazz hands to the empty room, "'_I have an Apple, I never have to restart or restore from back-up or reinstall operating systems or lose any work because of a crash_'!" He fumed. "Smug gits. Well they can take their Macs and shove 'em up their--"

"Xaphan, sir?" came a nervous shout from the doorway.

He looked up. Standing in the rectangular escape route known as the way to the spacious outside office was a rather shapely demon. At some point in the last few thousand years she had eschewed human form for something much more pleasing to a damned eye: the demonic equivalent of Angelina Jolie. She - or rather, Rubicante, to address her properly - was standing waiting, a file in her hand and a very reluctant hue to her face. The blaring squealing and roaring behind her did not seem to register with her at all.

"Yes, what is it?" he called back wearily, letting his hands drop quickly to the desk.

"Uh… It's… not good," she managed, walking in slowly on three inch cloven hooves that really did a lot for her stride, from a demon's perspective. He made himself look away quickly.

"How 'not good'?" Xaphan called over the noise coming from all around them. She bent nearer to him, putting a clawed hand behind what passed for an ear, cupping it to hear him against the raging wailing and screaming. "I said - oh, screw this," he snapped, getting off his chair and marching straight past her and to the door.

He wanged it open sharply and poked his head out, looking up and around the office.

"Oi! You lot! Pack it in! Get your tools, and your tea mugs, and _clear off!_" he roared.

The team of painters and decorators in the corner turned and looked at him.

"I can't hear meself think in here! If you lot don't shift in the next two minutes, I'll have you all sent down to Earth - how does a two thousand year holiday at the bottom of the ocean with them hundreds of lawyers do it for you? Eh?" he bellowed.

The assembled demons didn't even think. Previously tea-breaking and 'supervising' workdemons suddenly sprang into action faster than a girl with a Visa card on sale day. They quickly scooped up drills, hammers, paint cans, anything they could carry and scuttled off as fast as their hooves would carry them.

He watched them clear the area, his eyes tiny slits of rage and damnation. Once they had retreated, a form of calm returned to the open-plan office and he let out a long breath. He looked at the wall they had been working on, noticing the wet plaster and drips of paint everywhere, and shook his head forlornly.

"They can't even get that right," he tutted. He looked around the now-peaceful corridor, taking a deep breath and calming himself. He suddenly realised the head of every demon in every cubicle and desk had popped up and were now fixated on him. The anger tap turned itself on and it started to flood out once more.

"And you lot can do some bloody work, an' all!" he raged. "Am I the only one actually filing anything? Get back to work, the lot of you!"

He slammed the door and strode back to his chair, plonking himself down and looking up at the demon still stood. She appeared to be quivering slightly. It did a lot for her figure. He made himself look at the desk.

"Yes?" he asked tersely.

"Er… We've had a request, sir. Well, more of an order," Rubicante said reluctantly, lifting the brown cardboard folder in her hand and stretching it toward the demon.

He took it slowly, reading the large red stamp on the cover and snorting without mirth.

"'_Pass go, collect one restored life_'?" he read aloud. "My arse."

He opened the folder and read for a moment. She bit her lip - carefully. It was not a thing she did much, but she had just had her fangs sharpened and painted and it seemed a shame not to show them off to someone.

She watched him read until his eyes stopped abruptly over the page. He looked up at her.

"Bloody cheek!" he snapped. "They want us to release some bloke? Just cos a bunch of crying girls Topside want him back? Are they having us on?" he demanded. He looked back down at the folder and lifted the first page, reading more prayers but skipping all the boring parts - like names. Instead he was drawn to the juicy bits - the pleas, offers of trades and finally, sacrifices. "Unbelievable," he stated flatly. He looked up again to find her looking rather pensive. "What now?"

"Well… look who it's been stamped by," she said quietly.

His eyes flicked down and his face transformed into the one she loved and feared the most.

"That conniving little--. I knew he'd pull something like this, the sneaky bugger!" he fumed. He sat back and tossed the file onto the desk smartly, folding his arms and looking up at her slowly. "What do you think we should do?" he asked.

"You're asking me, sir?" she asked, surprised.

"Well I would ask the pot plant, but I think your answer would be much more fun," he smiled politely. She grinned.

"I think we should chuck the file in the Bad Fire and say we never received it, sir," she said boldly. His sarcastic smile turned into a grin.

"Oh I like the way you think," he winked suavely, and she warmed all over.

The phone rang abruptly and he jumped before casting it a suspicious look. He reached over and picked it up with a distinct lack of urgency.

"Yes?" he asked irritably. "Oh, Michael. Er, not so bad, thanks. Yourself?" he asked, forcing geniality where there was disdain.

Rubicante clasped her hands together in worry, watching. He nodded to her, lifting his hand to indicate she sit somewhere. She looked around and found the comfy chair in the corner of the room. She grimaced, but there was no other option. She would have to suffer the comfy chair.

"Have you? What, today?" he was saying down the phone. "Really? No, I haven't had a release order down--. Well I think I would have recognised a bloody release order when I--. Yes. Yes. I understand. I see. Of course. I'll find it right away. Who is it for?"

There is a moment when even a demon's appreciation of thunderbolts, lightning and everything else very very frightening can be tested. Rubicante's moment came right there and then as she watched the boss she loved to loathe explode from his chair, sucking in a deep breath of angry vapours.

"_You are joking!_" he roared in anger. "You want us to hand you back Dean bloody Winchester! _Dean bloody Winchester_?" he screamed.

Something echoed down the phone and there was a furious redness to his face.

"You are taking the piss! He's ours, mate, and there's _nothing you can do about it_! Oh yeah? Really? You want to test that theory? Then get your arse down here pal, and we'll see who's the better being! I'll tear his flamin' head off first, you watch me!" he raged.

Rubicante lifted her clawed hands and pressed them together, watching in delight.

"Oh yeah? Bring it on, mate! You know where I am! You can have your precious Dean Winchester back when I'm done torturing seven shades of shit out of him - in a few millennia!"

He slammed the phone receiver down, leaving his hand on it firmly. He blew out a huff of decision. He remembered Rubicante was still in the room and looked over quickly.

"Little disagreement with Upstairs," he said quietly.

"So I gathered," she grinned. "You were very… impressive," she added lightly, putting a finger up to twist it in her long sinewy tresses.

He shrugged nonchalantly. "That's what you get for doing this job cos everyone else is AWOL," he admitted. He thought for a moment, then reached out for the folder, opening it again. He read the name and cursed something that turned the air blue for a second, before it choked and died. "Dean bloody Winchester," he tutted derisively.

He got up and opened the top drawer, taking out a large ring of heavy keys.

"I think I should go and check on our exalted guest," he smiled. "It's been a hard morning, I could do with a laugh."

She got up immediately, aiming for the door automatically, and Xaphan bit his lip in indecision.

"Ever seen him?" he asked suddenly. "You could come down for a quick squiz - if you fancy it?" he offered with half-hearted hesitation.

Her heart leapt. "I'd love to. I never get to see the famous faces, so to speak," she grinned. "I mean, I've been working here a bloody long time, and I've never even seen so much as a B-lister. Well, not a real one. I've seen the CCTV, of course."

"That's terrible, love. You can't be slighted like that. After you," he smiled, waving her to the door.

She jiggled over to the door on her three-inch hooves and he sighed wistfully.

"It really is like jelly on springs," he muttered to himself, with more appreciation than he had expected.

* * *

Xaphan slid the key in the lock and turned it with force, pushing the door open for Rubicante. He waved a clawed hand at her to enter and she bounced in cheerfully.

The control room was a narrow viewing gallery, with one large square panel of chunky raised buttons of all colours at the end. The lighting was dim, dingy, inadequate, adding to the ominous feel of it all.

He guided her over to the panel and then put a hand to her scaly elbow, turning her to her left to see the large glass windows that appeared curiously dark and slatted.

"The blinds are down," he said helpfully, and she nodded. "Now remember, we can see out but he can't see in. And he actually believes he's hanging in an infinitely large wide open space of nothingness. He has no idea he can't see the walls four feet around him."

"That's clever," she giggled.

"Well if he knew he was in a tiny cell, I doubt it'd have the same effect," he winked. "Ready?"

She nodded, walking closer to the large panes of glass, putting her claws on the railing just inside the edge. He pressed a button and the heavy metal shutters raised quickly on the other side.

She let go of the railing slowly, putting her clawed hands up against the window, staring through it. She was transfixed by the sight of the human dangling from the meat hooks not six feet from her.

He had been arranged so he was mostly upright, although he was hanging slightly forwards with body weight and the added pain of slack in the chains: the ones connected to the hooks piercing his shoulders and wrists. His head had lolled forwards, his face hidden.

As she stared, taking in the marvel of a human so close to them and yet so perfectly unaware of it, she noticed something dripping from the face occasionally.

"Why does it drip?" she asked, fascinated.

"Blood," he said helpfully. "No matter how much he loses, he never gets worse - and there's always more to lose," he said with a large smile of satisfaction.

"But how?" she asked, confused. "Does he know he's dead?"

"He does. But most humans find it hard to let go of their ideas of what make them who they are. If for one second he realised he was not actually a body any more, but a free soul flying about at the merest command, we'd have real trouble containing him. Lucky for us he still thinks of himself as a person. At least, he does at the moment," he added with an evil grin.

She stared, her foetid breath misting up the glass for a second.

The glazier's amazing foresight, back when the room had been installed, prevented it from melting at the touch of her breath. In fact, it was capable of withstanding demonic breath for up to an hour, if need be. Which was why it had been honoured with the Demonic Kite Mark of Quality - ISO 6661 BSI.

Rubicante, so level-headed but so absorbed in the moment, failed to recognise neither the literally universally-accepted kite mark nor build quality. What she _did_ recognise was the incongruity of some scruffy, stinking human in such a penthouse suite of torture.

"And why's he so important?" she breathed, completely absorbed in watching the human dangle before her. There was something earthy, tragic, amusing about the dirty t-shirt all ripped and hanging, the filthy jeans mauled and filthy, the steady slow dripping of the dark blood from his obscured mouth. "It's like a car crash," she whispered, "I can't look away."

"Let's just say, he's not been good to our kind for a while. That's all you need to know," Xaphan said a little stiffly.

"Oh. A need-to-know thing, is it?" she asked with a small smile.

"Exactly," he nodded, relieved she wasn't going to press him on the details. He could imagine she pressed very well, and in all the right places, and the next few thoughts he had almost made him wish they were both off-duty and away from work's CCTV cameras.

"He's not moving," she protested, shaking him out of his wishful thinking.

"Looks like Dean-o The Hero has passed out," he mused, unimpressed. "Shall we wake him up?"

She looked at him and grinned evilly, nodding with delicious excitement before turning back. He looked behind him and pressed a button.

A flash of something caught her eye and she had time to realise something was rushing down the chains toward the captive.

It connected with the prone body and the entire human jerked in a spasm of pain. The arms wrenched against the bonds. The back arched out dangerously far. The head was thrown back in agony.

She clapped her hands, bouncing up and down, giggling.

"Do it again! Do it again!" she squealed.

He grinned and pushed the button again, holding it down a little longer than before.

Again the human bucked and squirmed. Again he relaxed as the jolt faded away, to be replaced with weariness and apathy. The chains rattled, the body hung limply, swaying slightly.

But eventually the rictus of pain left the face. The head swung round lazily to come to a rest. The chin came up gradually and the eyes lifted with a painfully slow inevitability. The neck, sheened with sweat and blood, trembled with exertion.

But the eyes locked with hers.

She gasped and her hands stopped clapping.

"He - he's looking at me!" she blurted.

"Don't be daft, he can't see us," Xaphan said dismissively. But when he looked over he noticed the human's bloodied head was still hanging loosely to one side, rather than straight down as it had.

His eyes connected with the green orbs of anger and rage, embodying a hate born of constant, pointless pain.

They stared at each other. Demon against human. Red against green. Authority against pure unadulterated hatred.

Time stopped.

"Sir?" someone called from the doorway.

He jumped. He turned and pressed the button, closing the shutters abruptly.

"What?" he snapped, trying to wipe the memory of the human's look from his mind. It was starting to make him shiver.

The newly-arrived demon looked apologetic.

"Someone to see you, sir. Says he's come a long way."

"I'm not seeing anyone," he snapped, waving a polite hand at Rubicante to suggest they leave.

"I think you'll want to see him, sir," he said quickly.

"And why in Lucifer's name would I want to do that?" he demanded. He was still having trouble wiping the look of individual seething revenge in the human's eyes.

The demon shifted on his hooves, twisting his clawed hands together in anguish.

"It's Michael, sir. From Upstairs. And he doesn't look happy."


	3. Chapter 3

**THREE**

"Xaphan, old man, how are you?" Michael said pleasantly, smiling at the slightly shorter demon. It was an interesting smile in that it did not touch his eyes.

"Oh you know, getting on," he allowed suspiciously. He looked at Rubicante behind him and smiled. "Tell you what love, why don't you take a load off outside." He turned to look at the angel slowly. "This won't take long."

She smiled reassuringly, nodding and walking from the doorway. Xaphan stretched a hand behind him and pushed the door shut.

"We're both busy beings," Michael said politely, "so I'll get right to it. Where's Dean Winchester?"

"He's in Solitary, where he's going to be for... ooh, let me see... oh yes: _eternity_," he smiled with an unctuous sniff. "Any other questions? Ask me the one about where broken hearts go and if they can find their way home, I know that one too."

Michael took a slow, steadying breath, looking down at his shirt cuffs as they protruded slightly from his suit sleeves.

"You've received the order," he observed, taking hold of his right shirt cuff and pulling at it smartly to straighten the sleeve.

"You know we have."

"Then why have you not released him?" he asked politely.

"Because you have no authority down here Mike. When Lucifer and his next in line are away, all co-operation is at the discretion of the management. Oh," he said suddenly, surprised, "that would be me."

"You realise you're breaking an aeons-old understanding, and making it very difficult for everyone, by being so stubborn on this one?" he said mildly, pulling at his left cuff to straighten that sleeve too.

"How can I put this? Oh, I know: ask me if I give a shit," Xaphan said flatly.

Michael dusted off a sleeve, ostensibly ignoring the demon and his sarcasm.

"Really, old chap, you should re-think this. He's just one human, after all," he said easily.

"So if he's just one human, what does it matter if he stays?" he sneered. "Give it up, Mike. He's not going anywhere."

"I rather fancy he is," he said quietly, raising his eyes to the demon's slowly.

"Yeah? My boot up your arse says he isn't," he snapped.

Michael's head tilted to the side slightly as he looked him up and down.

"Do we have to do this tiresome fighting thing every time?" he sighed with a weariness that appeared quite genuine.

"Yep," Xaphan snapped with enthusiasm, folding his arms across his chest.

"This is a new suit," Michael pointed out, somewhat petulantly, and Xaphan chuckled to himself.

"Skip to the bit that concerns me," he grinned.

"Very well," Michael sighed with abject sadness, "if you insist."

* * *

Rubicante swung her cloven hooves an inch from the floor, putting her hands on the desk underneath her knees and leaning her weight on them. The industrial-strength piece of office furniture refused to so much as bend to her rather substantial tonnage.

She looked down and watched her feet swing, thinking about everything she had seen during the day. Yes, the human on the hooks had been interesting, but that had been nothing in comparison to Xaphan shouting down the phone, or yelling at workmen, or being sneaky with the confident way he had let an unauthorised being into a secure area.

She let a warm, touching smile play over her lips for a second, looking up at his office door. She looked around the office, seeing all the demons working away. Some were sending out Reader's Digest coupons, some adjusting mailing lists, some ending out computer viruses disguised as pictures of TV celebrities, while other were wiping blocked users IDs from call registries. She sighed with happiness.

There was an abrupt smash from Xaphan's office.

She looked over quickly, seeing something pressed up against the inside of the glass door through the blind.

Then the dark shape was gone, and there was another smashing sound.

She looked back up round the large office, seeing all the demonic heads come up like meerkats in the Kalahari.

Something crashed and tinkled from behind the office door and she leapt off the desk smartly. She marched over and planted herself in front of the door, hands on hips, arms akimbo, daring anyone to ask what was happening within.

"What are you looking at?" she demanded loudly. "Get back to work."

* * *

"Really, Xaphan, I'm disappointed," Michael said evenly, taking his handkerchief from his breast pocket and pressing it to his nose firmly to staunch the blood. "All this time and you still fall for that."

Xaphan, on the floor and apparently unable to breath just yet, gurgled and shifted slightly.

"So we're agreed then? I'm picking up Dean Winchester before I leave?" Michael asked clearly, watching the demon catch his breath.

"Over - over my - my dead--"

"Oh dear," Michael moaned, shaking his head and putting his bloodied handkerchief away slowly. "You really are going to be a dreadful bore about this, aren't you?"

The demon managed to raise two fingers and Michael sighed in sadness.

"I see," he said forlornly, pushing himself up from perching on the corner of Xaphan's desk. He walked over with a slow, confident stride that Xaphan could feel through the carpet.

The demon squirmed to get up, but a pair of recently shined and buffed Brooks Bros. shoes stopped in his field of vision.

"You know," Michael said, spreading his wings to reach twenty feet across the room behind him, "I never actually enjoyed this bit. It was just that I was always better at it than everyone else. Ah well. True calling, and all that, eh?" he added cheerfully, lifting an ominous shoe.

* * *

Rubicante jumped as there was another loud crash and a whimper from behind her, in Xaphan's office. She swallowed and made sure her most fearsome glare was directed at anyone who dared wonder what was going on inside.

There was a shout and the sound of metal colliding with the floor.

_Oh sod, that'll be the filing cabinet_, she realised. _Well I'll be buggered if I'm going to pick up all those files and sort them out again._

A smash and a dull cracking sound echoed out behind her and she stiffened as it all went quiet. She waited impatiently, making an effort to keep her glare in place.

Suddenly the door opened behind her and she jumped, turning quickly. Her face fell in shock and worry as she realised it was some bloodied, dishevelled angel looking at her with a pleasant smile.

"Oh, hello. Sorry to bother you, but could you give me a hand with Xaphan? He's all worn out, poor thing," he grinned.

She fought the impulse to grab him and simply rend him angelic flesh from angelic bone. Instead she thought about the need to find her boss and make sure he hadn't been scattered to several winds. She pushed rudely past Michael and stormed inside, finding Xaphan lying on the carpet.

Several different shades of blood and a few bones were sticking out at strange angles, prompting her to run over and land next to him on her knees.

"Xaphan, sir?" she asked quickly.

"Minute," he breathed, and she nodded, sitting back. But she put her clawed hand out and took his firmly, squeezing. He appeared to smile slightly.

She looked up at Michael.

"Could you give us some privacy? He'll be right as rain in a moment," she snarled defensively.

"Of course," he said helpfully, nodding. "I'll just be outside."

He walked out of the door and closed it behind him slowly. A thousand demon heads looked up from their desks and cubicles to watch him, and he lifted a hand.

"Afternoon," he waved genially.

The heads went down again.

Michael waited.

* * *

The office door opened and Xaphan walked out slowly, carrying his keys and a brown cardboard folder. He stopped in front of Michael, looking him up and down.

The hour that had passed had not been wasted by the angel. Terrific forces of healing and manipulation had been brought to bear and he looked almost as he had when he had first arrived.

Michael looked back at the demon and wondered in a detached way if he had stocks or shares in the Elastoplast company. He certainly seemed to be covered in enough bandage and sticking plaster to keep the production line in good standing for quite a while.

"Oh, you found the order then?" he asked politely, putting his hand out for the folder in the demon's claws.

"Take it," he spat. "But I have to let him out. You're not allowed the keys. You understand," he added harshly.

"Absolutely," Michael said, raising his hands in surrender. "If the situation were reversed, I'm sure I'd do the same."

"Smug twat," Xaphan breathed to himself, walking off.

Michael's smile flickered for a moment, then he followed, putting his hands behind his wings and taking an interest in the route.

They walked for a good twenty minutes, along different corridors and through assorted offices. Every demon took the opportunity to openly gawp as the angel passed through their ranks, apparently being led by their acting-executive officer. Michael wasted no opportunity to wave and greet every one of them politely, a veritable unending source of geniality and smiles.

It grated on Xaphan's nerves, although he refused to show it.

This pleased Michael a great deal, although he refused to acknowledge it.

Eventually they stopped at the door to the viewing gallery. Next to it was a smaller, metal door with many signs and warnings stuck to it. Xaphan produced the keys slowly, slotting one into the lock. He looked at Michael as he turned it and swung the door open.

Michael looked at him, then reached over and took the keys out of the door, dropping them in his own pocket before looking in.

What he saw wiped his smile and any attempt at finding it again.

He pushed Xaphan roughly out of the way and marched into the small room. He stood and stared at the human hanging from the chains, unable to take his gaze from the dirty, rumpled remnants of soul and humanity.

He cleared his throat and put a hand out, touching at the human's chin. He lifted his head up to see his face.

"Can you hear me?" he asked clearly, looking up into the grimy, weathered face. The eyes were open, the pulse in his throat noticeably hammering, the chest moving. But there was no recognition, no flicker of life. Michael felt his heart contract slightly. "Please tell me I'm not too late," he blurted. "Dean? Dean Winchester? Can you hear me?" he said, slightly louder.

An eye twitched. Michael realised with a shock that perhaps the human no longer had control over his eyes. After who knew how much time of constant pain and torture, perhaps they were permanently stuck in their widened, unseeing state.

"Dean Winchester, I've come to get you out," he said clearly. He searched the dark green eyes for something, _any_thing that would tell him he wasn't too late, that the human had not been broken down and washed away.

He let go of the man, turning to look at Xaphan. He was watching from the doorway, arms folded across his bandages, amused.

"What's the matter, too far gone?" he grinned. "Shame. You sure you want him?"

"Would you mind terribly leaving us alone for a moment?" he asked carefully. But Xaphan recognised the same glint in his eye as when he had had his shiny Brooks Bros. shoe pressing into his demonic windpipe without mercy.

"Not at all," he said quickly, turning and pulling the door almost closed behind him.

Michael turned and looked back at his human charge. He stood back and studied the chains, then simply reached down to the man's ankles. He swept a hand over the hooks and they fell to the floor with a clatter.

The legs fell straight, swinging just a few feet from the floor. Michael straightened up and looked at him. His head had lolled down to his chest again, his face obscured.

"I don't know what they've been doing to you," he said quietly. "But I am truly, truly sorry. I'm taking you out of here. Someone needs you," he added, hoping his words would get through.

He heard the sound of moving material and searched the face.

So he didn't see the foot swing up and whack him in the groin with surprising strength.

The angel staggered back a step with a shout of pain. His wings shot open with surprise and pain, and therefore smacked into the narrow confines of the cell. He managed not to shout this time. Instead he jammed a knuckle in his mouth and cleared his mind of vengeful thoughts.

After a long minute he let his wings settle again, shook himself, and looked back at the human. His head was still lolling forwards, his frame still limp.

"I should have expected that, I suppose. At least I know you're still in there somewhere," he managed stiffly. "You really have no idea who I am, do you? And even if you did, you wouldn't believe in me. And even if you did, you wouldn't believe that I've come for you."

He sighed, shaking his head in sadness as he reached up and released the man's arms. He shifted under him and hefted him over his shoulder, causing the last two chains from his shoulders to fall free.

He turned them to the wall and set the human down gently, leaning him back against the invisible wall which, between the two of them, only he could see. He leaned back on one knee, watching him.

The human was simply staring straight ahead. But now there was excess water welling in his eyes. Michael grinned, putting a hand to his upper arm and squeezing.

"Believe me when I say that everything is going to be alright," he said warmly. "We've got time before we leave. There's just a few things we have to do first," he added darkly.


	4. Chapter 4

**FOUR**

"Thing is, you have to be able to walk out of here, old chap, or the whole thing is off," Michael said quietly, squeezing Dean's arm. "Part of the release order, you see? You have to be _compos mentis_ to be released. So I need you to show a little life, Dean Winchester. Just blink, or nod, or something that shows me you're still in there," he said earnestly.

Dean just stared, his face slack, his eyes vacant.

Michael sighed, letting go of his arm. "Alright," he said quietly, letting himself relax on his knee, opening the buttons on his suit jacket and wiping his chin slowly. "Whether you believe in me or not, this is going to get you jump-started. If it doesn't… well, I rather fear nothing will," he breathed.

Dean's eyes did not move.

"Ok," Michael said decidedly, putting his hands together and squeezing them as he thought. "Right. All you have to do is think, Dean Winchester. Think about the words I say, and the things you see because of them. Ok?"

No response.

"I'll take that as a yes." He cleared his throat. "Mary. Your mother, Mary. You remember her?" he asked gently.

An eye twitch.

"Good! Right, do you remember her face? Her smile? The nights she tucked you in?" he asked, his voice soft and persuasive.

A second eye twitch.

"Splendid!" he grinned. "I hate to have to do this, Dean Winchester, but you have to remember. November, 1983. 2nd November, 1983. You couldn't sleep, your mother put you to bed but you called her back three times to get water. Do you remember?"

Both eyes blinked.

"Good! And then she tucked you in that final time. She read you a story, do you remember what it was?" he asked.

No response.

"No? That's because there _was_ no story. Sorry, old man, had to check you weren't just agreeing with everything," he said apologetically. "Anyway, she tucked you in a final time, said that if you kept asking for water she'd put you in the bath. Yes?"

Both eyes blinked, twice. The excess water spilled from the human's right eye, tracing a murkily cleaner streak down the grimy, bloody cheek.

"Good," the angel managed. "And then she kissed you goodnight. And what did she say to you, Dean Winchester? What did she tell you?"

He held his breath, waiting. The human didn't appear to be making a response.

"She leaned over your bed, she pushed your hair from your face, and you felt her kiss your forehead. Didn't you, Dean Winchester? Didn't you?" he breathed in barely contained anxiety.

The human's head lolled down and Michael almost sagged. But then the head came up slowly, before dropping again not quite so far. It swung up again and he realised it was a bargain basement nod. He decided bargain basements were better than no merchandise opportunities at all, and smiled brightly. He noticed the human's eyes were still vacant but the face was starting to tighten, to become something more than a slack space where a personality had once been.

Michael's wings spread all by themselves, the excitement too much for him. He clasped his hands together in worry.

"And she looked at you and said - she said - what did she say, Dean Winchester?" he prompted, reaching out and grabbing his arms. "What did she say?"

The human's mouth fell open but nothing came out. He swallowed and his eyes broke from their vacant stare. But they still appeared unfocused as he ran a dry tongue over parched lips, his face creasing in pain.

"What did she say?" Michael urged, squeezing his arms tightly. "She leaned over you, she touched your face. She looked down at you from above, so beautiful, so perfect. And what did she say?" he breathed.

The human croaked something, then stopped, his face reflecting the pain.

Michael leaned forward. "Come on! You can speak, Dean, you can! Tell me what she said!" he blurted.

The man rasped and then dragged in a deep breath, the angel's painful clutching at his arms focusing his mind with a snap.

Michael leaned closer to him, his patience at a very neat end. "She said - she said _'I love you, Deanie. Don't forget_-'"

"Don't forget," Dean whispered, and Michael clamped his mouth shut quickly. Dean swallowed, more water broke from an eye, and the wait on the angel's part was almost intolerable.

"Yes?" he blurted.

"Angels - angels--" Dean's voice gave, either from wear and tear or lack of lucidity, it was hard to be sure. Then his eyes blinked again, sending fresh water down his face. "Angels - are watching - over - over you."

"_Yes! That's it!_ That's it exactly!" Michael shouted, squeezing and shaking his arms in triumph. "That's it! And we did, Dean, we did! We came for you!"

Dean's eyes suddenly moved in their sockets. While he blinked as if the light were too harsh in the dingy room, they turned and most definitely connected with Michael's.

"Dude," he managed with a broken voice.

"You're talking! You're with us! You're really in there!" Michael squealed in joy, pulling on the human and wrapping his arms round him in a hug that would have squeezed the juice from several hundred oranges.

"Dude," he tried, his eyes open and staring with purpose at the large white feathered appendages now mere inches from his human face.

"Yes!" Michael managed, trying to calm himself. He pulled the man back slowly to look at him. "Yes?"

"Wings," he rasped, and Michael grinned at him, holding him by the shoulders.

"Yes! Wings!" he chuckled, still unable to get over the relief.

"_Big-ass_ wings."

"Yes!" Michael shouted in triumph.

"No,_ wings,_" Dean stressed. He sounded far away, as if not sure if he were dreaming, and yet his words made sense.

"Because I'm an angel!" Michael shouted at him. "I'm Michael! I've come to get you out!"

"'N angel?" he croaked, blinking and letting his head lean back against the wall.

"Yes! Yes! That's me, the angel!"

"Unicorns too?" Dean rasped.

Michael blinked for a second, then shook off the apparently random comment. "I came for you, obtained a formal release order and everything," he grinned.

"Why?"

"Why?" he echoed, then laughed. "You don't trust anyone at any time, do you?"

"Safer," he managed, and Michael's face fell slightly.

"Yes, well. You can trust me, Dean Winchester. I've come all the way down here to the torture chamber in The Pit to get you out. You're leaving with me - but you have to be able to walk. I can help you, but I cannot carry you. Do you understand?" he said clearly.

The way Dean's eyes had lost focus and his neck had gone slack worried him.

"Dean! Do you understand?" he cried urgently.

"Sorry about - about booting you in the - in the jewels," he croaked suddenly, and Michael grinned.

"I should have seen it coming, to be honest," he said. "Nice to know you still have your spirit."

"Hurts."

"Yes, I rather think it does," he said sadly, watching the human's face reflect all the suffering he had taken. "It's going to take some time, Dean, before we can return you. You understand that, don't you? You can go back - but not like this," he said softly, looking the man over and feeling his own heart pound in anger and outrage. "Not like this."

"Get me out," he whispered, and Michael nodded firmly.

"Absolutely, old man. There's someone who needs to see you," he grinned.

"Sam."

"I wondered how long it would be before you mentioned him. He's not doing well without you, Dean. We have to get you back. Can you walk?" he stressed.

Dean pushed his head off the wall and looked directly at the angel.

"For Sammy?" he whispered, apparently unenthusiastic about straining his sore throat, "I could run."

* * *

Michael walked along, his hands behind his wings. He watched Dean's bare feet as they strode an almost straight line in front of him. Every now and again the angel's right hand shot out to support the human as he lurched unexpectedly, either knee giving through exhaustion.

As they walked Michael realised Dean was becoming steadier and steadier on his feet. While him not bumbling into everything in his path was a good sign, it didn't give any indication as to his force of will.

And his vacant eyes still worried the angel.

The entire open-plan office stared, the thousand pairs of demon eyes tracking the two of them as they made it slowly across the office.

As they reached the far doors, the ones that led to the lifts, Dean paused. He turned slowly, pain evident but under control.

"Something first," he rasped, sounding remarkably like Al Pacino gargling with razor blades.

Michael nodded. "What do you need to do before you leave? Once we've repaired you Topside, most of this will be a very, very distant memory - hopefully not even that. If there's something you need to do, or say, to start to help you get over this, you must do it now," he said kindly.

Dean looked around the office, seeing the demonic workers watch him surreptitiously over cubicle divides and partitions.

"Where's the bastard in charge?" he demanded of the room in general.

The heads quickly disappeared from sight. Michael looked around, amused.

"Whom would you guess?" he asked, a smile fighting for, and winning, a moment on his lips. _He's my kind of human, this one_, he thought. _Direct and just. Mostly._

"Him," Dean said with loud confidence, lifting a hand and jabbing a finger at the demon stood right at the back, his arms folded in contempt. "Seen _you_ before," he added, a quiet menace fuelling the edge to his tone.

Xaphan let his arms drop and stared at the two of them. Michael grinned at him.

"Xaphan, old man, would you mind awfully coming over to say goodbye? It would mean so much to us," he called politely.

Xaphan tutted and muttered something under his breath. He stomped over in his heavy cloven hooves, watching them suspiciously. He came to a stop, looking down at the filthy, pathetic human in front of him.

"Was there something, maggot?" he snarled.

Dean's jaw took on a definite edge before he looked at Michael. "I'm real sorry, man," he offered, his rough voice managing to sound contrite.

Michael covered his grin by putting his hand up to cough politely, taking a step back and looking at his feet.

Dean looked back at the demon, straightening his tortured, painful frame as tall as it could go. Xaphan raised his hands to his hips haughtily.

"Well?" he snapped. "Something you want to say to me?"

"My dad always taught me to thank people for their hospitality," Dean seethed. "You ain't human, I can see that. But this is still my chance to be the better man."

"Oh really?" Xaphan grinned. "Go on then, thank me like a good little boy. Make John proud."

Dean took a step forward. His right foot landed on the demon's hoof. At the same moment Dean leaned back. His left hand swept into Xaphan's chin. He reeled, unable to stagger to keep his balance with his hoof trapped. Dean's right fist crashed into his head. His angry hands grabbed the demon's arms. He wrenched and their heads collided with a monumental crack. His knee went up into the approximate area of a groin. The demon doubled over. Dean grabbed the horn on the side of his head. He wrenched it down with all his remaining strength. He slammed his head down into his raised knee with an almighty _whomp!_ that reverberated around the office.

He watched the demon drop to the floor. He stared down at him, panting his breath back and concentrating on not falling down where he stood. He wiped his hands on his jeans slowly.

"So I ain't - the better man - after all," Dean managed as he tried to catch his breath, looking at Michael now. "Bet ma dad's still proud o' me right now, though."

Xaphan groaned and squirmed on the floor, getting a scaly hand under him to look up at the human.

Dean glared down at him, eyes suddenly blazing a jade fire fuelled by hatred and anger, pointing a finger at him accusingly.

"Next time we meet - _and we will_," he panted, "it's gonna feel a whole lot worse than that." He looked at Michael with a weariness the angel feared would topple him at any moment. "Ok, _now_ I'm good. _Now_ we can go."

Michael concealed a grin at Xaphan's expense and put a hand to Dean's clean left shoulder. He patted it firmly, partly out of appreciation, partly to steady the human. Then he nodded and turned them to the double doors and walked him out of Department H.

* * *

"Ah, Michael," He beamed, waving him in through the doors. "Come in, old chap. A few things."

"Yes sir," Michael grinned, walking into the office of the Supreme Being and closing the door softly behind him.

"Got him out then, did you?" He smiled.

"I did, sir. Safe and sound. Report should be on your desk somewhere, sir."

"Oh yes, I've read it. Most distressing, most distressing. Had to stop for a cup of tea halfway through," He admitted uncomfortably. "But you believe he's salvageable?"

"I do, sir, absolutely. And so does Gabriel. He finished a session with him a few days ago, says he's managed to sign him off on his first recovery level stamp," he smiled.

"Good, good." He paused, leaning back in his chair and eyeing Michael speculatively. "There's just one thing, old man. I hate to have to do this, but I must put a tiny mark on your record."

"As expected, sir," Michael managed, crushed by the disappointment on His face but striving not to show it.

"So you do understand why?" He asked.

"Yes sir. I should not have let myself be goaded into a fist-fight with Xaphan, sir," he replied smoothly.

"Exactly! It was deplorable and weak of you." He paused. "Now, off the record, I hope you gave him a ruddy good kicking," He winked. Michael relaxed and cleared his throat politely.

"Although I had no interest in seeing him in pain or discomfort, sir, it appear to have worked out in exactly that way," he sniffed.

He grinned. "Good man. Now then, this Dean Winchester fellow. When can he go back? I've got reports all over about this poor Samuel lad. Things are becoming critical," He said seriously, leaning forward and placing his clasped hands on the desk. "What do you think, hmm?"

"Soon, sir, soon. At the moment… he's still getting over the switch from dark to light, sir."

"I see," He mused. He sat back again, and there was a tiny _ping_. His eyes were drawn to the large white monitor to His right. Michael blinked.

"A new computer, sir?"

"Yes - Gabriel had it sent over. I have no idea what it's called but it seems to do the job - dare I say it - faster than Me," He smiled indulgently, reaching out and typing a response impossibly slowly with His two best fingers.

"Surely not, sir," Michael grinned, eyeing the large black apple shape embossed on the bottom of the twenty-four inch screen.

"It really is amazing. I've been video conferencing and adjusting figures all morning. At this rate I'll have nothing left to do by four o'clock." He looked back at His angel and smiled. "Free for some afternoon tea, Michael?"

"I'm afraid not, sir. I have a few souls to see to."

"Ah. In that case, run along and see to this Dean Winchester character. See what you can do to speed up his recovery, eh?"

"Yes sir," Michael grinned, nodding respectfully and backing out of the office. He closed the door behind him, straightened his suit jacket, and walked across the open-plan office to the double doors at the back. He turned left before he reached them, walking on down the corridor and using his high level pass key to gain entry to the red door at the end.

He pushed it open and walked on, nodding and smiling to the assorted angels carrying clipboards or pens, busying about with small smiles of achievement. He continued on to the end, using a second pass key to open the light blue door. He pushed on through and found himself alone. He turned left, walking for some minutes before he pushed through a final white door.

The corridor inside was a pleasant, slightly pastel green that radiated soothing relaxation to everyone who entered. He straightened his suit again, cleared his throat, and braced himself. He walked softly to the first room on his left, stopping and looking through the large friendly window.

Inside was a tall, confident angel, sitting in a large comfortable red armchair. He was sat forward, his hands clasped, smiling in a reassuring way at the human to whom he was talking.

The human looked despondent, washed out, worn and haggard. His bright white t-shirt and loose trousers were a stark contrast to his dark demeanour, his head down slightly as he ostensibly listened to the angel talking.

But his eyes. His eyes were vacant, unfocused.

The one thing Michael feared the most.

He knocked politely on the door and the angel turned to look up. He said something to the human, who nodded dully, his eyes on the arm of the heavenly creature's chair. The angel turned and waved Michael in.

He opened the door slowly, trying his best smile and closing it softly behind him.

"Morning Gabriel," he said knowingly. Gabriel stood, putting his hands behind his wings and looking at his charge. "Morning Dean," he offered.

"Is it?" he asked vacuously, his eyes aiming more or less for the carpet.

"Well, not as such, no. But it's the first shift of the day," he smiled.

"Super," he replied, the listlessness pinching at Michael's confidence.

"Mind if I have a word with him, Gabriel?" he asked.

Gabriel looked at him, then blinked at the human. "Is that amenable to you, Dean?"

Dean looked up slowly at Michael. He gave a tiny shrug, the expression in his eyes still not quite lucid.

"Well then," Gabriel said nicely, looking at Michael.

He pulled on his arm as he left, walking them both into the corridor. He pulled the door to and let his hand drop from Michael's arm. Michael looked at him expectantly.

"Total brain lock," he said quietly. "Haven't been able to get anything from him at all this week. You might have been wrong, Mike. It looks like you were too late."

"No," he said stubbornly, putting his hand to the doorknob. "I've seen the extraordinary things these two lads have accomplished together. I've witnessed the achievements of a Winchester first-hand. Faith works two ways, don't forget."

He winked at Gabriel, pushing the door open again and walking in quietly. He closed the door and wandered over to the plush chair as if he had all the time in the world. He put his hands in his pockets, studying Dean intently.

"So then, my turn, is it?" he asked cheerfully.

Dean's eyes slid to the door slowly. Michael watched him, and it looked very much to him as if the human were waiting for something.

Or someone.


	5. Chapter 5

**FIVE**

Michael took in the way Dean's eyes were pinned to the door for a long moment. He turned to follow his gaze, found Gabriel waving pleasantly through the window, and then the angel was gone. Michael turned back to look at Dean.

"I'm told you always look at the door," he mused quietly. "Are you hoping that Sa--"

"Am I glad _he's_ gone!" Dean interrupted, suddenly full of life. He lifted a hand and pointed at the closed door with a swiftness that took the angel by surprise. "That dude could talk the hind legs off any donkey and _still_ make it wanna run off to get a stiff drink afterwards!"

Michael laughed out loud before he controlled himself and sat down slowly in Gabriel's chair.

"And I was worried you'd never talk to anyone again," he chuckled, relief pouring off him like rain. "So you're prepared to talk to me, are you, Dean?" he asked, more seriously.

"O' course," Dean shrugged, confused. "Why wouldn't I?"

"Because, old fellow, you've not said more than three words to anyone who's been in here since I left you in their hands. Even Raphael complained you were the most useless sack of potatoes he'd ever had in Therapy."

Dean flicked his eyes up and Michael was pleased to see a tiny spark of indignation in there.

"Although I think Raphael is a terrible bore myself. What do you think?" he grinned.

"I don't," Dean said slowly.

"Not at all?"

"N - no," Dean admitted carefully. "Can I go already? Sam's gotta be tearing his hair out by now."

Michael sighed, sitting back in the chair and looking at him speculatively. "Not yet," he said firmly. "You're not quite right, just yet."

"How do you mean?" Dean asked, his face giving off a perplexed air. But his eyes were vacant again.

"Do you sometimes feel that… that you've forgotten to bring something?" he asked gently. "That perhaps you've left something behind?"

"Yeah! _Me!_" Dean replied, surprised. "I mean, I'm not real, right? Well - I'm real, cos like, I'm talking to you right now - but I don't actually have a body."

Michael looked puzzled. "Explain."

"These ain't my hands, dude," he said quickly. "They look like 'em, and they touch things and pick stuff up - but they ain't mine. I _know_ they ain't," he said firmly. "They're just… copies. Like… real good copies. But just cos it's got a fuzzy Chevrolet stamp on the bottom don't make it a genuine factory-made part, know what I mean?" he added desperately.

Michael nodded slowly with a gradual smile.

"I think I do," he said. "I can tell you that you're absolutely right, Dean. You're not 'real', as you put it - at least, that's not your real body. It's just how you remember it to look." He paused, watching the human lift his hands and look them over slowly. "You're just a lost soul right now. But we're looking after you. We're going to return you, don't worry about that. But first… there's a few things of which we have to make sure."

"Like?" Dean pressed. "I got stuff to do, man."

"And what would this 'stuff' be?" the angel asked, interested.

"First I gotta find that Lilith and teach her what sharp pointy charmed blades are for. Then--"

"Dean, Dean, Dean," Michael interrupted, drowning him out and waving his hands at him. "Slow down. Revenge is not a good thing to carry, and never a good thing to execute."

"Oh it'll be a _damn_ fine thing to execute when I get ma hands on--"

"No, Dean. It won't." He sighed, long and hard. "Lilith is a demon, we both know that. But she's trying to mutiny against a management that's not even in his office. She's moving toward something that she can neither comprehend nor control, and she won't find out until it's too late," he added brightly. "Believe me when I say that you're going to get your victory laugh yet. It will all come out in the wash," he winked, sitting back.

Dean just stared at him, and the angel was pleased to notice the disbelief and will to fight his answer in the dark green eyes.

"Seriously?" he challenged. "I tell you I'm going to find and wipe out one possible leader of the demon army and that's what you come back with?"

"Absolutely," Michael grinned. "Have faith, Dean, like you always have."

"I've never had faith," he snorted.

"Not in religion, no. But yourself, yes," he said curiously. Dean avoided his gaze. "Or… no, not yourself. Sam. You've always had faith in Sam, haven't you," he mused to himself. "Even though you're supposed to be watching for his very soul, making sure he doesn't end up leading the Bad Fire rebels."

"That ain't your concern," Dean muttered forcefully, his eyes on his hand upon the armrest. "That's family business."

Michael smiled warmly. "And that's solely _your_ concern, is it?" he asked quietly. "As his only family left?"

Dean watched his fingers pick at the arm of the chair slowly, considering his answer with a worried frown.

"In the days of my youth I was told what it means to be a man. Now I've reached that age I've tried to do all those things the best I can," he managed, as if struggling with something.

Michael grinned, then raised a hand to wipe it across his chin fluidly. "And?"

"No matter how I try I find my way into the same old jam," Dean said slowly, with difficulty.

Michael leaned back in the comfy chair, watching the human and his murky emerald eyes rip into a very personal civil war. It was silent for some moments as Self-Worth did battle against Guilt and the closest thing it had to an ally: Doubt.

"Are you aware you're talking in Led Zeppelin lyrics?" the angel asked with a smile.

Dean looked surprised, the tide of the civil war tipping in favour of Self-Worth unexpectedly. "I am?"

"You did just now." He watched the young man, but he avoided his gaze suddenly, looking toward the perfect faint green wall to his right. "Do you think you're fine, Dean?" he asked gently. "It seems you and I have accomplished more this morning than everyone else has in three weeks. I think you can tell me: do you think you're fine? Do you think going back as you are is a good idea?"

Dean swallowed and looked at the arm of the chair again with troubled eyes.

"No," he admitted.

"And why do you think that is?" The angel's voice was soft, persuasive. Dean looked at him steadily.

"Cos… Cos all I can think about is that Xaphan asshole and his chains," he whispered, a slight shiver going through his shoulders.

Michael nodded slightly.

"But that's normal, right? I mean, if I didn't think about it, I'd have to be a real whack-job, huh? Huh?" Dean asked. His eyes were a little too pleading, a little too eager for the angel's answer.

"Yes," he said simply.

Dean sat back in the chair. But then he looked up again, just as desperate. "What happens when I wake up?" he asked nervously.

"When you wake up?" Michael prompted.

Dean nodded energetically, pushing on the plush chair arms to sit more upright.

"Well yeah," he shrugged, turning his hands out in confusion. "None of this is real, right? It's like... when you wake up in the morning but you're not all the way awake yet. --But I don't want to be awake," he blurted suddenly, waving his hands at the angel, "don't wake me up!"

"Why?" Michael asked curiously.

"Cos when I wake up I'll be dead again!" Dean cried, as if it were obvious. "I don't want to be dead!"

"That's an improvement," Michael observed. "Last time I read your file, old man, you seemed pretty insistent that what is dead should stay dead."

Dean's face drained of colour as he looked back at the angel. "Did I say that?" he asked, as if trying to remember.

"Yes. Do you still think that's true?"

"No. Cos that means Sammy should stay dead. Out of the two of us, he's the one that never deserved any of this," he said firmly.

Michael let his eyebrows raise by themselves. "And you think you deserved to go to Department H?"

"Yes. No. I don't know," he said swiftly. "I... I'm not sure. I used to think so. But... Gabriel took me to meet someone yesterday. He took me to see…"

His voice trailed off but Michael just waited patiently. The minutes ticked away, Dean lost in the enormity of his thoughts.

Eventually he ran a slow, thoughtful tongue over his lower lip and his eyes rolled up to look at Michael like a bunny in the headlights.

"Who did you see, Dean?" he asked softly. "Who was it?"

"Meg. Meg Masters." He held Michael's gaze. "And she... She said she…"

It was silent a long moment.

At last Dean sniffed. He pushed the backs of a couple of fingers across his nose casually, recovering a little of the nonchalance that Michael knew to be more like the Dean Winchester from the files.

"What did she say?" he asked.

"She said she forgave me. _She forgave me_. For everything I did to her while she was possessed. For making Sam exorcise the demon - and for killing her," he said flatly.

Michael nodded slowly.

"And do you feel better now?" he asked knowingly. He noticed the rebellious sparkle in the green eyes, and it made him smile.

"No I friggin' _don't_!" Dean cried angrily. "I knew I was killin' her and I still did it - cos I knew I had to stop the demon and I didn't give a rat's ass for her life as long as I did it! And then I see her standing there telling me she understands and she's _grateful!_"

"First of all, your purpose was a noble one, and the only one who cannot see that right now is you, old man. Trust me, she's right. But so are you," he smiled easily.

"Yeah? Well your logic sucks," Dean shot back harshly. He huffed to himself and lifted his feet to perch them on the edge of the chair cushion under him. He wrapped his arms round his shins and rested his chin on his left knee, his face dark.

"That's as maybe. But it still stands," Michael allowed. He paused, watching him and thinking. "Would you mind explaining something for me, old chap?"

"I ain't old and I ain't your chap," Dean snapped petulantly, lifting his head from his knee. "I got a name."

"It's good to hear you say that," Michael admitted. He watched him steadily. "So Dean, tell me something and I can sign you off levels two and three of the recovery protocol."

Dean looked at him suddenly, as if surprised, and Michael realised he had said a magic phrase.

"The firing sequence for my Chevy Impala is 1-8-4-3-6-5-7-2," Dean said with a cheeky smile that made Michael's heart swell with relief. "Or how about the fact that the AC/DC album '_Back In Black_' is still the fifth biggest selling album in the US in history?"

"Oh, very good," Michael chuckled.

"I hear the world's second biggest ball of twine has been downgraded to the world's fifteenth freakiest attraction - only after the discovery of the fur-bearing trout of Chaffee County, Colorado," he grinned.

Michael actually laughed out loud, slapping a hand against his own knee lightly before he looked over at Dean, shaking his head.

"That's all well and good, but with all seriousness, Dean, tell me: why will you talk to me but ignore everyone else?"

Dean's smile fell slowly to be replaced with confusion. He looked around the room as if expecting someone else to be there, listening. He checked the door before putting his feet back on the floor. He leaned forwards, his elbows on his knees. He put his hands together and fixed his winged rescuer with a conspiratorial look that amused Michael no end.

"Cos I ain't sure they're real," Dean whispered, worried someone else might hear them. "I mean, they're supposed to be _angels_. They got _wings_ and everything," he stressed in a hoarse whisper.

"Am I an angel? Do I have wings?" Michael asked patiently.

"Well yeah," Dean scoffed, "but you're real," he added, sitting back again and waving a hand at him in apparent approval.

"And why am I real where they are not?" he asked curiously.

"Cos you were down _there,_ man. You saw it. You and me walked out of there. You were _there_."

"So... Only the painful, terrifying, dark and ugly things are real - anything good is not real?" Michael hazarded.

Dean lifted his hand and snapped his fingers to point at him. "Exactly. You can't rely on the good things - even if they _are_ real they don't stick around," he said with a brave smile, but his voice was firm with cynical conviction.

"I see," Michael nodded slowly. He put a hand up and ran it down the perfectly neat black hair at the back of his head slowly, thinking. "So I will eventually turn out to be not real?"

"Naw," he snorted dismissively, "you're just one of them things that don't stick around."

"I don't know what's worse; not being real or being considered someone who neglects people," he blinked.

"Oh hey, I didn't mean to--"

"So I neglected you in your hour of need, did I?" he challenged. "You humans! Always moaning about something!"

"Woah, hang on a second," Dean said quickly.

"No, _you_ hang on a second, Dean Winchester. I had to pull a great many strings to come and get you from a place I'm really not supposed to go! So if you want to be ungrateful you can do it back Downstairs and free up some room for a soul who actually _wants_ to be healed!" he snapped, with the first sign of anger that Dean had witnessed.

Far from putting him in his place, it stirred anger in the human, too.

"Who says I can be healed? Or that I want to be?" he growled suddenly.

"Meaning?" the angel demanded, hiding his relief at the human's reaction.

"You set me straight and I'm no good to anyone," Dean continued loudly. Then his face changed: now it was needful, desperate. "I need this. Don't take it away, it's all I've got left," he pleaded.

Michael nodded slowly.

"And that's level four," he said kindly.

* * *

Dean sat and waited in the corridor, his hands clasped loosely in his lap, watching the crowds of people come and go. Some were happy, giggling. Others were more serious but definitely bursting with expectation.

He looked around slowly, taking in the light pastel blue walls and general hubbub of activity. He got to his feet, putting his hands deep in the front pockets of his white standard-issue trousers, sniffing to himself and wondering just what he could possibly make of it all.

And if he dared.

Suddenly a door opened and the amount of people in the corridor doubled. He was jostled and nudged by the new tide of people, and then someone stepped on his bare toes.

"Ow! God_damn_ it!" he blurted. He clamped his mouth shut, looking around guiltily.

"Sorry, mate," came a voice, and he froze, sure he had heard the voice before.

"Naw… it's fine," he hazarded, daring to look up. He stared, then swallowed. "Hi," he said bravely, putting his hand out. "Dean Winchester."

The man looked at him, amused, then stuck his hand out. "Bon Scott. How are you?"

"Ah - ah - good, good," he managed. "You, er… you work here?" he asked with a grin the size of Texas, which even then barely managed to communicate a fifth of his excitement.

"Only half days," Scott admitted. "I write music."

"_Really_?" Dean gasped, his eyes bulging at the thought. "You still write music?"

"Only for the lifts here," Scott said, chucking a thumb over his shoulder. "Whenever you get in a lift and you hear crappy music playing away up here, you'll know I did it," he added, smiling self-deprecatingly.

"I'll be listenin' out for it," Dean grinned.

"Well then, looks like I'm still the busy man I was ten minutes ago. Have fun, Dean Winchester. Might see you around, mate."

"Yeah, yeah," he managed eagerly, watching him turn and disappear back into the crowd.

There was a pull on his shoulder and he turned to see Michael looking at him. The angel opened his mouth but then paused, enjoying the sudden light in Dean's eyes. It was the most promising improvement in the human's temper and self-perception since he'd been brought up to the Lost Souls Department so long ago.

"What?" Michael managed, intrigued.

"You have brand new AC/DC music in your lifts? Man, this is the awesomest place _ever_!" he blurted with a childish grin, abruptly sticking up two thumbs in approval.

Michael simply stared at him, one eyebrow raised in surprised confusion. "Ah… right," he offered slowly. "You _do_ know where you are, don't you, Dean?" he asked deliberately clearly.

"I know where I'm _supposed_ to be," Dean said, with a whimsical smirk. "But just cos you tell me this is Heaven and people are wearing wings and everything's real clean, don't make it necessarily so," he nodded firmly. "It ain't real. None of this."

"Really," Michael allowed with a satisfied smile. "So if it's not real, how are you touching it with your feet, your hands?"

"Cos they ain't real either, man," Dean said sadly. "You know, one thing I miss about being alive? It's being able to touch real stuff. And sleep. I haven't slept in… since I got here. Or down there. Can't remember," he sniffed.

"Well then," the angel interrupted. "If none of this is real, you wouldn't want to see the Return Order I've just had stamped for you, would you?"

"Return Order?" Dean asked, unsure.

"To return to your real body, a real life, Sam, Bobby - everything," he smiled knowingly.

Dean let his mind wander and think back to what it was like - to be in a real body, to walk and feel the crunch of gravel under his boots, to smell real gun oil on a rag, to slide a hand down the shiny wing of the Impala, to taste real alcohol, to feel a woman's hand on his back--

"So what do I have to do to get there?" he asked immediately.

"I escort you down. It won't hurt," he added.

"Whut?" he said quickly. "Right now?"

"As good a time as ever," he shrugged.

"You mean, I just… I just wake up and go, '_hey Sam, I've been dead for what feels like years, but remember me_?'" he asked.

"Almost," Michael admitted. "For us, it has been timeless. Time has a funny way of getting lost Upstairs, and Downstairs too, as you are only too aware. For those on Earth, we're as little as a few days away from your departure point," he said. "There is a small matter of physical wounds to work out, but I believe we have that covered too."

Dean's mouth worked but nothing came out. He let his eyes drop from the angel's, looking round the floor at his feet for a tense few seconds.

"But you and that… that Xaphan demon guy, and everything they did to me while I was hanging like fresh washing… All of that? And I can just go?" he asked, his face a study in confusion.

Michael put a hand on his shoulder. "You've been through all five levels of our rehabilitation protocol," he said reassuringly. "I'm afraid you may not remember being Upstairs here at all. What you remember of Downstairs is up to you - we can't control what they did." He let his hand drop from the clean white t-shirt the human was wearing. He sighed, looking at his shiny Brooks Brothers shoes. "I cannot deny, I will miss you, Dean. You have been an eye-opener for this old soul, as well as a few others," he admitted, looking at the human again.

"Really?" Dean asked, surprised. "I'm just surprised I ain't been kicked out by now," he sniffed. "Didn't think you'd let my kind in here in the first place. What's that quote - '_I wouldn't be a member of any club that would have me as a member_'?" he grinned.

"Oh Dean," Michael said, an abrupt softness to his face and tone that surprised the both of them. "You're more our kind than you realise. You simply never bothered to look. Don't think the only reason we got you out of there was for Sam's benefit. Without you, dire consequences would have resulted in what comes next."

"What are you talking about, '_what comes next_'?" Dean asked. "What does that mean?"

"I really, _really_ wish I could tell you. But as I can't, you have to know this, Dean Winchester," he said seriously, "we saved you for _you_, not as an appendage of your father or brother. Remember that. You're not the useless fake you think you are. And you never were."

Dean swallowed, not really knowing what to say. Michael patted his shoulder again.

"Come on," the angel said sadly, turning him by his shoulder and walking him on with him, holding onto the human firmly. "Time to get you home. Someone needs you."


	6. Chapter 6

**SIX**

Sam sat with his back against the door, his knees up and his elbows resting on them.

"All I'm saying is, we gotta move him," Bobby said reasonably. He crouched down to put a hand out to Sam's knee. "And you have to eat something, son. You been sat here for three days. I never seen anyone so willing to die of thirst."

"Just leave us," he said tonelessly. "Go and eat. Go and do something. Go and live. I've got some thinking to do."

His eyes didn't even flicker at Bobby as the older man got to his feet with a huff.

"I ain't leaving you, boy. I know as soon as my back's turned you'll be doing all kindsa stupid shit to get him back. That's why I'm here. I left your brother alone before in exactly the same situation, and all it got us was this unholy mess." He folded his arms. "So I ain't going nowhere."

"Suit yourself," Sam snapped.

Bobby stared at him and then walked back a step, finding the top step to the stairs and sitting down laboriously. He got comfortable and took off his cap slowly, smoothing a hand over his head.

"You know," he offered quietly, "he'd be pissed if he knew what you were doing."

"Yeah? Well he can--," Sam mumbled, but his voice fell away and there was no malice in it. Bobby heard the sniff from behind him and closed his eyes. He pulled his cap back on, letting his head fall into his hand forlornly.

It was silent, save the sound of creaks from the wooden stairs, and the tiny sounds every empty house makes when it thinks no-one can hear it.

A loud, racking cough interrupted their thoughts suddenly.

Bobby straightened, grabbing tightly to the salt-loaded shotgun at his side. He jumped as Sam scrambled to his feet abruptly, wrenching the door to the bedroom open. Bobby struggled to his feet but both men froze in sheer terror as they looked in.

Dean - dead Dean - was currently coughing and spluttering on his back on the wide bed. He gasped for air, his hands clutching at the bedspread, his eyes squeezed shut.

Sam pushed on the door frame to propel himself into the room. He sprinted to the bed and grabbed the remnants of his brother's jacket, pulling him to sit up.

"Dean!" he shouted, terrified. "Dean!"

"Michael! You - you lying - bastard!" he coughed, his eyes still shut. "Hurts like - like Hell!"

"Dean! It's me! It's Sam!" he shouted, shaking him.

Dean's eyes snapped open as he grabbed at the hands on his jacket. He stared at Sam, as if not sure what he was seeing.

"Hey! You look like - like--" He stopped and swallowed. "S-Sam? Sammy?" he dared.

"Yes! It's me!" he blurted. "Dean! You're supposed to be dead!"

Dean just stared at him before his hands went from his jacket to his head, grabbing his little brother and keeping him still to study him in disbelief. Sam stared back for a long few minutes before he realised he hadn't remembered to breathe.

He gulped in a breath as Dean let him go, swallowing.

"Been dead before," he croaked. "Get your hands off me, man."

But Sam only let go to fling his arms round his neck, crushing him to him in a hug that pretty much squeezed all the newly-claimed air from Dean's lungs.

He wheezed painfully, smacking feebly at his younger brother's back.

"Little air," he managed.

Sam let him go, holding him by the shoulders and staring at him so hard Dean wondered if he didn't already have a hole in his head.

Bobby, still standing in the doorway, took a deep breath. "Well I'll be--"

"Don't you say 'damned'," Dean interrupted, pointing at him. "Believe me, it ain't something you ever wanna be - I think."

"But… how? When? Why? Who?" Sam blurted. Then he gripped his brother in another life-threatening hug.

Bobby wandered in and collapsed in the chair, the shotgun dropping to the floor by his side.

"It's fuzzy," Dean admitted, closing his eyes and letting himself just fall against his brother, finding it reassuring in a way he would never, _ever_ tell him about. "Michael! Where's Michael?" he cried suddenly, pulling himself away from Sam and looking round the room quickly.

"Michael who?" Bobby asked warily.

"Er… I don't know," Dean said, confused. "Suddenly I… got no clue. Name's just in my head: Michael."

"That's what you said just now, you were calling at someone named Michael," Sam said. "Who is he?"

Dean scrubbed his face in both hands, then stopped suddenly, pulling his hands away and looking at them.

"My hands…" he realised, turning them over and then back again, staring at them. "My hands! They're real! And… if I think they're real and I believe they're real and they _still_ don't disappear - then they're real!" he cried happily.

He looked up to find Sam staring at him.

"They're real! _I'm_ real!" he cried triumphantly. "Ha _haaa_!" he crowed, grabbing Sam's real jacket in his real hands and shaking him. "_I'm all real! I'm all back! I've got real hands again_!" he shouted.

"He's lost it," came Bobby's weak, gravelly voice from the corner of the room. But Dean didn't hear him.

"I'm aliiiiiive agaaaaaain!" he sang in a brash, cracked voice, shaking Sam jubilantly. "It's me! It's all me!" He pulled on Sam and hugged him to within an inch of his life. "Ha _haaa_!"

Sam just held onto him, unable to put anything into words.

Finally Dean released him and pushed him back, jumping off the bed. His knee buckled and he slapped a hand to the bedside table to steady himself.

"Woah!" he managed, then lifted his hand, looking at it and laughing again. He spread his hands, turning them over and over to stare at them. He patted at his chest firmly, then his front jeans pockets, then his rear jeans pockets, then looked back up at Sam.

"Dean…" he managed, about as lost as he could get.

"It's me again!" he cried. "I got a real head! I got a real pair o' hands! I got a real pair o' boots! I got a _real_ need to go take a pee-break!" he blurted. He clamped his mouth shut, looking at Sam with a question on his face. "That one?" he asked quietly, chucking a thumb at the white wooden door far to his left.

Sam simply nodded and Dean hurried for it, disappearing inside and slamming the bathroom door soundly.

Sam turned and looked at Bobby, raising his hands in surrender. Bobby looked back at him, blinked, and just shrugged in confusion and shook his head. They heard a very familiar voice - a voice they had both been missing and believing they would never hear again. It hummed loudly from behind the closed door, and Sam and Bobby simply stared.

And stared.

And stared.

The humming stopped. But the voice started to sing.

"_Back in black! I hit the sack! I been too long I'm glad to be back! Yes I'm - let loose - from the noose! That's kept me **hanging about**! I keep lookin' at the sky cos it's gettin' me high! Forget the hearse cos **I'll never die**! I got - nine lives - cat's eyes! Abusin' every one o' them and running wild_!"

They heard the toilet flushing, helping to drown out some of Dean's raucous singing with what sounded like a criminally dry throat. But the singing continued as the taps ran in the sink.

"_Well I'm ba-ha-ha-haaak! Ba-ha-ha-hak! Well I'm back in black - yes I'm back in black_!"

The bathroom door was flung open. Dean turned side-on to the gap, his shoulders hunched up and drawn together as his elbows and closed hands went round in little _cha-cha-cha_ circles. He sidled into the room, hips shimmying up left and right in an alarmingly fluid manner. His boots shuffled across the carpet to the accompaniment of his _la-la-la_-ing of the same tune, his hands and elbows still describing little circles at his sides. He danced until he was out of range of the arc of the door. He paused his travelling long enough to put a foot up behind him and slam it.

"_Well I'm ba-ha-ha-haaak! Yes I'm ba-ha-ha-haaak_!" he sang at full volume, victory-dancing his way across the room, apparently oblivious of the other two watching him perform his little shuffling mambo. "_Well I'm ba-ha-ha-haaak! Yes I'm ba-ha-ha-haaak - HUH_!" he continued, almost back at the bed.

"Dean?" Sam asked quietly.

His big brother was still engrossed in happy-dancing round in little circles, singing to himself as the younger Winchester and older Singer simply watched, dumb-founded.

Sam recovered his powers of speech first. "_Dean_!"

Dean jumped and almost let a naughty word tumble from his mouth. Then his head looked round guiltily and his wide eyes told Sam confusion and embarrassment were about to hit him.

"You done?" Sam asked quietly.

Dean cleared his throat, letting his hands drop smartly, giving a professional sniff before putting a hand to his midriff self-consciously. He paused, realising the t-shirt under his fingers appeared to be letting his hand touch skin. He looked down at it and found it had been raked into tatters. He stared, confused.

"What's with the--?"

"Dean," Bobby interrupted suddenly. "Son, sit down."

"But--"

"_Siddown_!" the older man roared.

Dean simply let himself drop to the bed, only half hoping it was still behind him. He looked back at them with uncertain eyes.

"What's the last thing you remember?" Bobby asked cautiously.

"Remember?" Dean heaved, putting a hand through his hair and scrubbing at his head for a full minute. "Ah… You mean, when I was alive? Or when I wasn't real?" he asked amiably, squinting at Bobby.

Sam backed away to a wooden chair, sitting heavily.

"When you were real," he said, eyes mistrustful, face locked in suspicious disbelief.

"Ah… that would have to be… Oh!" he said, snapping his fingers. "Getting ripped to shreds by hell hounds," he nodded with amused confidence.

"Riiiiiight," Sam observed lightly.

"Man, that hurt. I mean _really_," Dean continued cheerfully.

"O-k," Sam said slowly. "And after that?"

"After that… Oh, tell you whut, I am Hank Marvin! And I'm talkin' right now I could eat either one o' you two if there was enough ketchup to--"

"Dean!" Bobby cried, frustrated. The younger man looked at him, closing his mouth with an audible snap. "Look, son… We're all in shock here, you know? Just shut the hell up and calm down for one minute," he added, more evenly.

Dean blinked, and then appeared to be waiting. He looked from Bobby to Sam, then looked down at himself, pulling off his torn jacket in slow motion. He lifted the collar of the dark shirt up, sniffing it suspiciously. He made a face and pulled the apparently offensive garment off quickly. Feeling better, he looked around the room for the first time.

"Is this the girl's house?" he asked. "This is where-. The hell hounds were downstairs?"

Sam and Bobby nodded solemnly.

"Looks different. Man, that was like ages ago," Dean breathed, confused. "I can't believe you two look the same."

"What do you mean, ages ago?" Sam asked slowly.

"You think I could get a t-shirt from the car?" he asked innocently. "This one's kinda ventilated."

Sam just stared at him, and Dean realised his brother's eyes were bright red and much too moist.

"Whut?" he asked slowly, looking at Bobby and then back at Sam. "Whut?"

"Dean, you were _dead_. For four days," Bobby supplied. "Sam - Sam took you off the floor downstairs, where you _died_, and put you on the bed there. We've been sat on the landing outside for three days. Three _days_." He paused, then cleared his throat. "We're just not ready for you to jump up all full of beans and start actin' like nothing's happened. You get me?"

Dean stared at them for what felt like an eternity.

"Say something," Sam whispered. Dean shifted his gaze to him.

"That was… that was so long ago," he managed. "I mean… first there was… there was… You don't want to _know_ what there was," he said quickly. "Then there was… well he… he got me… I mean, he came for me, and then… and then something… and… and now here I am…"

He looked down at his hands slowly, then at the huge rent in his jeans.

"Aw, man," he grumbled. He poked his finger through the gap in the cotton, feeling it touch the skin of his leg. He jumped, as if not expecting it. "Son of a bitch!" he blurted. "That's my leg! My real leg!"

"Yes, Dean, you're real," Sam said patiently.

"But I ain't been real for so long," he said to himself. "No sleepin', no eatin', no… no… Ma car!" he said suddenly, looking up. "Where's ma car?"

Sam actually smiled. "She's outside," he managed, his throat strained. "Still in the same spot."

"That's a relief," he sighed. Then he looked at them both as they stared openly at him. "Whut?"

"Dean," Bobby said, getting up and walking over slowly. He pulled a small silver flask out of his pocket, handing it to him. Sam stood quickly, his face tortured.

Dean didn't notice their painfully acute attention. He grinned and took the flask, unscrewing it and chugging down half the contents before he managed to stop himself.

"Hey! This ain't liquor!" he protested, then looked up at Bobby. "It's holy water?"

"It's holy water," he confirmed. "Had to be sure."

"Thanks," Dean groused, but as Bobby put his hand out for the flask, Dean pulled it back. "Can I finish it?"

"Why not," Bobby grinned. "Sounds like you been without any kinda water a long time."

Dean tipped it up and drained it easily, handing it back.

"So then," Bobby said, looking back at Sam and then Dean slowly. "What happens now?"

"We eat," Dean said firmly.

"Can we just - just stop," Sam said quickly, his hands up. "Look, just… Dean," he said shakily, and his older brother looked at him.

"Sammy, sit down before you fall down," he said, worried. "You ok, man?"

"No!" Sam shouted suddenly, making the other two jump. "No I'm not ok! I've never _been_ this not ok! One day you're dead, and then four days later you just get back up again!"

"What Sam means to say is, we have to know how. And if you don't know the how, then the why would be a _real_ good start," Bobby said.

"Look, right now I'm not even sure which way is up," Dean said honestly, spreading his hands as if he didn't particularly care, either. "But I do know I really _have_ to eat."

"First of all, I'm assuming you're not all carved up still?" Bobby interrupted pointedly.

Dean stood again slowly, pulling the giant downward rips in his t-shirt apart to look through.

"Seem ok to me," he shrugged, apparently fascinated by the sight of his own clean, unmarked, real skin. He put a finger through the slit in the shirt and pressed at what passed for part of a six-pack in someone who neither checked nor cared. "Yup, seem ok."

"Yeah, we can see _that_," Bobby stressed. "How? Why?"

"Michael," Dean said immediately, then looked up, confused. "Where did that come from? Do we know a Michael?"

"Oh, I know a Michael," Bobby said darkly, walking up and taking Sam's elbow, gripping it tightly. "The Archangel Michael? As in, warrior for God?"

"Which one?" Dean asked innocently.

"Which what?" Sam demanded, his voice hard enough to smash a window if thrown.

"Which god? Like, a pagan one, or like--"

"God!" Sam shouted angrily. "_Thee_ God! With a big G!"

"Ok! Calm down, Sasquatch, I was just askin'!" Dean protested.

Sam advanced on him, grabbing him by the shoulders. Dean felt his fingers digging in and looked at him, completely lost.

"Where have you been, man? Where the hell have you _been_?" Sam shouted into his face.

"Sam, don't put your fingers--"

"No! You _tell_ me where you've been!"

"Just get your fingers off ma--"

"_Now_!" Sam roared.

Dean grabbed his hands and threw him off suddenly, with strength Sam had forgotten he'd had. As Sam stumbled back and watched him carefully, Dean put his hand up to his right shoulder, holding the top as if it hurt. He lifted his hand slowly to look, appearing confused when he found no wound, no pain. He checked his hand anyway, found it clean, then lifted the t-shirt and looked underneath with what seemed to be dread.

He let it drop and looked back at Sam. The younger brother's eyes were dark and scathing.

"Had a hook in it," came Dean's mumbled admission.

"What?" Sam demanded with real anger, cupping his hand round his ear sarcastically.

"It had a hook in it, ok! A friggin' great big-ass meat hook!" Dean exploded. "So stop man-handling me like _I'm_ the one who ain't been _dead_ for years!"

Sam opened his mouth, but his throat refused to make a noise.

"It's only been four days," Bobby put in quietly. He sounded like the wind had gone from his sails.

"For _you_, maybe!" Dean shot back. "You have absolutely no idea, do you? No friggin' clue! I was down there and time just _stopped_! It just went on and on and on - there _was_ no time even though I was wishing the whole world would just hurry up and _end_ cos I'm hanging on these hooks and getting the shit fried out of me by - by--"

He paused suddenly, taking a deep breath and finding he had no more words.

"I mean…" he said quietly, putting his hand back to his shoulder and squeezing it slowly.

"You were actually in Hell?" Sam asked, barely above a whisper.

"No, Sammy - I was organising ma sock drawer!" he snarled angrily. Sam took a step back, surprised by the ferocity of his reply. But Dean's angry face changed abruptly into one of turmoil, or perhaps pain, as he squeezed his shoulder again, looking at it.

But if Sam had been emotionally k-o'd, Bobby was still undaunted.

"So you were definitely there, and then you got out. _How_ did you get out?" he asked clearly. "This is important."

"I… It wasn't me, it was…" Dean breathed quietly, his eyes on his hand turning slack, vacant. "Someone came… and there was… There were chains…" he whispered, as if to himself.

Bobby and Sam exchanged a furtive glance that came fully loaded with everything from disbelief to fear. They looked back at Dean, but he was squeezing his shoulder, his knuckles white, his eyes boring into the carpet like it owed him a new carburettor.

"Dean?" Sam asked quietly.

He was still staring at the floor, his face now clear, expressionless - blank. Bobby cleared his throat, walking round Sam and inserting himself between them.

"Dean," he said gently.

Dean stared at the carpet, his empty eyes seeing other things, perhaps. He didn't move.

"Dean," Bobby tried again, slightly louder.

Dean let his hand drop from his shoulder, lifting his face up. But Bobby and Sam were taken aback by the way his eyes pinched up toward the bridge of his nose, the outside edges ramming down as far as they would go. The vulnerability made Bobby's mouth run dry. Sam simply stared, realising he had never seen his brother look so afraid.

"I don't - I don't remember," he whispered, his eyes dropping back to the floor safely. "I don't remember if I… if I don't or _can't_ remember."

"Ok," Bobby managed gently, turning and looking at Sam. "Sam, go get his duffle from the car - he needs some clean clothes. I'll keep an eye on him." He nudged the taller Winchester as he made no attempt to move. "Go on, get. And bring us back some food. We need some damage limitation before we get the hell outta here."

Sam looked at him, swallowed nervously, and then managed a nod. He turned and hurried from the room.

Bobby looked back at Dean, who was still finding the carpet the safest place to look.

"Gettin' over you dying was one thing for him," Bobby said sadly. "How he's gonna get over you coming back, I just don't know."

* * *

More coming soon...


	7. Chapter 7

**SEVEN**

Dean sat at the table, his hands on the wooden surface as he fiddled and watched them intently, as if nothing else existed. He hadn't even looked at the pizza in the middle of the table, so engrossed was he in the marvel of human skin.

Sam sat back in his chair opposite, his arms folded, watching him. He chewed on his lip in anxiety, his eyes communicating just that emotion all too well, as he watched his older brother totally consumed by the way his own fingers moved and touched each other. Something caught Sam's eye past his brother's head, and he noticed Bobby's head and cap appear round the door jamb. He gestured to the kitchen with his head, and Sam got up slowly.

As he passed Dean he hesitated. He swallowed before laying a light hand on his shoulder. Dean jumped and looked round, finding him standing next to him.

"Eat something," Sam said quietly, patting his shoulder and walking into the kitchen. He found Bobby washing his hands in the sink slowly, turning to grab a towel and dry them off.

"Is it really him?" Sam dared. Bobby sniffed and watched his hands on the towel.

"Seems like it," he shrugged. Sam covered the space between them much too quickly for Bobby to have time to react. He grabbed Bobby's arm and stared at him.

"No. '_Seems like it_' isn't good enough," he whispered vehemently. "Is it _him_?"

Bobby searched the younger man's face for a full minute sadly.

"I believe it is," he said quietly. "Look, we've given him all kindsa holy items and he didn't even know they were there. He's been drinking holy water like it's beer without a flinch - hell, he don't even seem to know the difference right now. If he were just a demon, he would have given it away," he reasoned.

"Really?" Sam snapped. "I was possessed for a week, Bobby. It took him _days_ to figure it out, and only after I smacked him round the head. And when Dad was possessed? It didn't even notice holy water, remember? So he could be faking."

"Then poke him with a stick," Bobby said with a weak smile. "Look, if it makes you feel better, I'll slip in a little exorcism and see how it works out. Ok?"

"Ok," Sam nodded. "But what if --"

"Sam," Bobby interrupted. "I know you're going to find this hard to take, but have you considered for one moment that it really _is_ him? He's seen things and been through stuff that no living person was ever meant to, and now he's back. He might need a little help, y'know?"

Sam let go of his arm.

"Yeah," he muttered, his face a study in guilt. "I just need to know it's really him."

Bobby walked past him to the door frame, looking round carefully. He turned and looked back at Sam, and he walked over to stand behind him and stick his head round the door frame too.

They watched Dean, his back to them. His head was tilted to one side, and Sam knew he was still absorbed in his inspection of and experimentation with his fingers. He wasn't even looking at the food.

"See? That's not normal," Sam whispered.

Bobby looked at him, then walked out and over to the table, sitting down. He leaned his hands on the table top and looked at Dean.

"You gonna eat or leave it all for me?" he asked with a cheery smile.

Dean looked up quickly, as if startled. "Whut?" he asked, blinking at him. Bobby did not let his fear show on his face.

"I said thanks for leaving me all this pie. It'll be payment for looking after Sam the past four days."

"Has he been a pain in the ass?" Dean asked conversationally, and Bobby relaxed slightly.

"Like you wouldn't believe," Bobby grinned.

"Really," Dean managed, but he looked distinctly uncomfortable. "Don't really know what I believe right now."

"Care to tell me what happened?" Bobby asked carefully. "I mean, if you want to."

"To be honest, I'm not even sure," Dean sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I mean-- He ain't listening, is he?" he interrupted quickly, looking at Bobby with piercing vulnerability.

Bobby looked past him to the kitchen door, making eye contact with Sam. He edged slightly to his left so as to be half-hidden by the door jamb.

"No," Bobby lied glibly, looking back at Dean. "Why?"

"Cos I can't let him think I'm not really back, y'know?" Dean said gingerly. "I've gotta be full-on back, all the way back… I've just got to be in charge of _something_," he added forcefully. He realised he had started to raise his voice and bit his lip, looking at the table.

Bobby flicked his gaze up at Sam, whose eyebrows were going through tortuous somersaults all by themselves. He looked back at Dean as he took a deep breath.

"Look, I just… I don't even know what I remember, but… but I know I've been somewhere I really don't _want_ to remember. And everything's been out of my control for so long, I can't think that… Well look, I'll just get over it," he shrugged suddenly, sitting back in his chair.

Bobby met his gaze, surprised.

"Dean, you been _to Hell_ and back," he pointed out slowly, leaning on the table. "This isn't just another Hunt gone wrong, or your dad dying, or Sam getting knifed. This is some serious shit, and you better--"

"Bobby," he interrupted wearily, and the older man paused. "I know something big's happened. I know I'm not the same - I'm just not. All I care about right now is getting over the fact that I don't remember all the stuff that happened after I died - even though I know there's been a seriously long break in between me dying and sitting here right now. I _know_ it's been ages, I can _feel_ it's different. I just don't know how," he admitted lamely. "I'll figure it out. Just have suck it up and get on with it, right?"

Bobby smiled and sat back in the chair.

"Well at least you're taking it like a Winchester," he chuckled, shaking his head.

"Yeah, how about that," Dean said, letting himself smile. "Just… do me a favour," he said suddenly, pinning Bobby with a look of alarm.

"Anything, son," he replied, his voice softer than he had meant it to be.

"Don't tell Sam I'm… I'm only half fixed," he said quickly. "Making him believe I'm alright might just keep me sane," he added with a weak smile.

Bobby nodded.

"I promise I won't tell him," he said, his peripheral vision picking up the waver of Sam's head in the doorway in the background.

"Thanks, man," Dean sighed. "So I'd better pretend I'm the decision maker again, huh?" he smiled, straightening in the chair deliberately. "Pass me that Hawaiian. Let me show that pizza who's boss, then we'll ship outta this place. The sooner I get this house behind me the better," he said brightly.

"Good thinkin', Batman," Bobby smiled, sliding it over.

* * *

The Impala sped away from the house smartly, Sam gripping the steering wheel tightly as they headed away.

"I still don't see why I can't drive, man," Dean grumped from the passenger seat.

"Cos you keep sliding off into La-La Land," Sam pointed out harshly. "If you want to wrap your baby round a tree we can change seats right now."

"Sam," Bobby said sharply from the back seat. "Just get me to the bus station."

"Yes, Bobby," Sam muttered, refusing to look at him in the rear view mirror or to his right, just in case his brother was watching him.

It was a two hour drive, during which Sam managed four words and Bobby fell asleep in the back seat. Dean propped his elbow up against the window block and appeared to be watching the scenery going by. He didn't speak and Sam didn't ask.

Eventually they reached the bus station and Sam parked the car quite a walk from the station building, not wanting to get tangled in all the cars fighting for a space at the front. Bobby climbed out slowly, stretching and grumbling, while Sam watched his brother stare at all the people crowding the parking lot. He seemed surprised, or curious.

_What's he staring at all the time? Is it the amount of people, or the fact that there_ are _people?_ Sam wondered.

"So then boys," Bobby said, pulling both of them back to the real world, "you know where I'll be if you need me. Sam, take it easy. Dean… I don't know what to say," he shrugged.

Dean smiled. "Then don't. We'll come by soon with some Green Label," he said innocently.

"See that you do," Bobby said gruffly, then hesitated. He avoided Sam's gaze as he walked up to Dean quickly and grabbed him in a bear hug that nearly crushed the life out of the younger man. "Just you take it easy, you hear me?" he warned.

"Yeah Bobby," Dean managed, surprised and humbled.

Bobby pulled him away, clapping his palm to his face over his ear, just looking at him for a long moment. He patted lightly and removed his hand before stepping back and looking at Sam.

"And you calm down," he warned. Sam managed a nod and then Bobby turned, heading off across the parking lot, his bag over his shoulder.

Dean just turned and looked at Sam. "What was that all about?" he asked, lost.

Sam sighed. "I need a drink," he admitted.

Dean grinned but then sniffed the air. "I smell… hot dogs," he judged. "You want one?"

"You just had half a pizza like four hours ago," he said indignantly.

"Yeah - _four hours ago_, Sammy. And it was only half," he pointed out with a childish grin. "I'll be right back."

Sam threw his hands up in the air as Dean disappeared into the groups of people swanning about the car park. He huffed and leaned on the car, folding his arms.

After barely a few minutes, he spotted his brother's sandy coloured head approaching and leant up off the wing of the car, feeling like a hot dog was the last thing he wanted.

_But if he wants me to eat it, I'll just eat it_, he heard himself say. He smiled as Dean broke free of the throng of people, holding two hot dogs in one hand and a tall coffee in the other. _God, it's just good to have him walking around like a normal person_.

Dean was thirty feet from the car as he was bumped from his left side. The coffee toppled but two hands lunged in out of nowhere and grabbed the sides helpfully.

"Steady on, old chap," said a friendly voice, and Dean paused to look at his beverage rescuer.

"Thanks," he said cheerfully. "You saved my life, man."

"I rather fancy I _have_, at that," the man grinned, letting go of the cup. Dean's face twisted in bemusement and deep thought.

"Do I… know you?" he asked slowly, trying to place the tall man in the new suit. Something made him look down at the man's shoes. For some reason he was unsurprised to see they were Brooks Brothers.

"Me? Oh no, shouldn't think so," he said helpfully, prompting Dean to look up. "Listen old man, you wouldn't know where the ticket office is, would you? I have to get home."

"Ah… it's back there, by the hot dog stand," Dean said, gesturing with his head even as he thought furiously, turning the man's friendly face over and over in his mind.

"Thank you so much. Ironic that you should send me home, too," he grinned.

"Too?" Dean prompted. "You _sure_ we've never met?"

"Hardly believable, now is it?" the man said knowingly. "You look as if you've been away."

"What do you mean?" Dean asked cautiously.

"No offence, old man, but you just look like you're not really all the way back. Still thinking about the last place you were, eh? Happens to me every time I take a holiday, too," he went on conversationally.

Dean almost took a wary step backwards.

"Still, shan't hold you up any longer," the man smiled. "Much obliged to you, dear fellow," he said, reaching out and putting a hand to Dean's right shoulder. "And don't worry, everything settles back down in time, when you're back where you're supposed to be." He squeezed slightly, patting and then letting go.

"Yeah," Dean said faintly. "Thanks for rescuing my coffee."

"Not at all, old chap," he said with a cheerful wink, turning and disappearing into the crowd.

"I ain't old and I ain't your chap," Dean said automatically, then gasped and looked up. "Hey!" he called through the crowd, trying desperately to see the man's head and which way he'd gone. "Hey! I remember you now! Michael!"

But the throng of people was too full, the sounds too heavy. The man was lost and Dean was left holding hot dogs and coffee, wondering if he dared believe what he was thinking.

"Dean?" someone called, and the newly recovered memories submarined back into oblivion once more. He looked round to see Sam watching him. "Sometime today?"

Dean stared at him, then whipped round to look back toward the ticket office. He tried to bring back the feeling of knowing the stranger, of remembering his face, his suit, his shoes… but it was gone. He breathed the first available swear word that rolled off his tongue, knowing that the name of the man, and the place he had met him, should have been there instead.

_What did I just call him? What was that flash I saw? Why's it gone?_

He looked round at Sam again, torn. Then he took in Sam's face - his eyes that were weary but happy, his shaggy hair almost obscuring the worrying eyebrows.

_What was I just… Was there a… Whatever. Can't have been important_, he shrugged dismissively. "Coming, Sammy," he nodded happily.

"Who was that?" Sam called, intrigued.

"No clue," he called back with sudden cheer. "Just some random British dude, I think. Sounded like that Hugh Laurie guy before he was that doctor." He sped up to get back to the car, his position in the car park at once filling with busy people.

So nobody saw the small white fluffy feather, skittering gently about the gravel in a wind all by itself.

* * *

Sam gripped the steering wheel, watching the dark road intently to stop himself from staring openly at his brother. The brother who, until this morning, had been dead.

Far from attracting worms or smelling like a really bad open drain, Dean was leaning forward in the passenger seat, smoothing his fingers over the dash slowly, grinning like a small child.

"Oooh, feel that," he gushed appreciatively, _mmm_-ing to himself. Sam's nervous eyes shifted over, watched his fingers for a half-second, then darted back to the road.

"It's just vinyl," he ventured.

Dean grinned, his fingers still moving against the material. He moved to lean forward, sniffing it slowly and making unmistakably pleased sounds in the back of his throat.

"Stop that," Sam snapped quickly. Dean sat back, surprised.

"Whut?"

"Stop touching things and licking things and sniffing things and moaning to yourself!" Sam cried. "You've been doing it all day! It's freaking me out! It's obscene!"

"I ain't touched anything real in ages, Sam! Leave me alone," he grinned.

"And stop being so--"

"Awesome?"

"No! So--"

"Velvety smooth?"

"No, Dean! So--"

"Handsome?"

"No! So friggin' _happy_!" Sam cried. "It's like you're twelve years old again, man! Quit it! Right now!"

"Well excuse me all to hell," Dean huffed. "I've been dead, Sam. Dead. And even though I don't really remember what's been happening to me, I'm _damn_ sure it ain't all been beer and pizza where I been. So just let me enjoy being back, ok? I'm sure in a week everything will be back to normal, and I'll be the grumpiest bastard this side of Pennsylvania. Until then, pull those pink panties out your ass and get over it," he said firmly.

There was silence for a long few minutes, punctuated only by the purring of the Impala, which had sounded suspiciously extra-smooth to Sam that evening.

"So, ah… Hell," he ventured hesitantly. "You want to… You want to talk--"

"No."

"Oh. Ok. So are we just supposed to pretend it never--"

"Stop," Dean said abruptly, sitting up in the seat.

"Fine," Sam huffed.

"No, stop the car," Dean ordered.

"What?"

"Stop the goddamn car!" Dean cried, exasperated.

Sam flicked his gaze up to the rear view mirror before yanking the wheel and screeching to a stop in the gravel at the side of the road. Dean creaked the door open and marched round the car. He opened the driver's door and stared at Sam meaningfully.

"What?" he asked, confused.

"Get out!" Dean called.

"Ok, calm down," he huffed, sliding out of the seat and standing by the side of the vehicle. Dean pushed past him and melted into the driver's seat, pulling the door shut.

Sam threw his hands up in the air in exasperation before walking round and getting in the passenger door. He settled himself and almost had the door shut before Dean spun the tyres. He chuckled wickedly as the Impala leapt out of the gravel and onto the tarmac faithfully.

Sam held onto the wrist strap, watching his brother squeeze the wheel and grin to himself. He looked away quickly, concerned. But Dean's enjoyment of the whole driving experience and his resulting noises were too much for the younger Winchester to bear.

He noticed a sign approaching and sat up straight in the seat to point. "Dean - Dean - food," he said quickly. "There - look - turn off," he gabbled._ Got to get him to tell me something - anything - that breaks him out of this denial trip._

"Whut?"

"Food! Over there!" Sam prompted, pointing further on down the road.

Dean checked the traffic before slowing the car and following the turn-off. The car _chug-chugged_ her way down the slip road to the diner, reflecting the neons in all her side panels as she swept down to a spot by the doors.

Dean killed the engine and sat back, stroking the wheel with a fond look on his face.

"What shall we--"

But Sam was already leaping out of the door as Dean looked over. He sighed and climbed out, squeaking the door shut and watching his younger brother disappear into the diner.


	8. Chapter 8

**EIGHT**

Dean locked the car and followed, opening the main door to find Sam sat at the counter, talking to the waitress.

Dean plonked himself on the swivel stool next to him, looking round and smiling genially at everyone.

"He'll have the biggest cheeseburger you've got," Sam said quickly. "I'll just have a coffee."

"Sure thing," the waitress said, winking at Sam and turning away from the counter. Dean watched her go, then whistled to himself in appreciation.

Sam turned on him immediately.

"Keep it zipped up," he said shortly. "We're eating, you're not going to do anything embarrassing, and then we're leaving for a motel with really, _really_ thick walls."

But Dean's eyes were glued to the waitress and the way she skipped round the diner, smiling at everyone.

"Can't help it, man. Upstairs, downstairs, everything's back as it was," he mumbled, pre-occupied. Sam slapped his elbow and he was brought back to the moment rudely. "Ow!"

"Stop it. Just eat. And don't go feeling stuff," Sam snapped.

Dean just let his eyebrows raise in surprise and a marked lack of concern, swinging the stool round to face the counter. He leaned his elbows on the glass top, then made the mistake of looking down. He started to chuckle and Sam's eyes rolled. Twice.

"What now?" he demanded tersely.

"Dude! I really _am_ a handsome devil," he chuckled. His face fell instantly. "Human. Person. Man," he corrected quickly.

Sam cleared his throat and looked away deliberately. It was silent between them, Dean lost in the uncertainty reflected in his eyes, until the waitress returned with a plate.

"There we go," she said with a wide smile. "Anything else you need, honey, just ask for me," she winked.

Dean just looked at her blankly. Sam nudged him.

"Thanks," the older Winchester blurted, and she turned away again.

Sam looked at his brother but he just stared around the diner slowly, lost. He seemed to be looking at people as if he'd never seen one before, his eyes wide with curiosity, his eyebrows hitched together with the struggle to remember something, or perhaps work something out.

"Hey," Sam said slowly, concerned. "Red meat."

Dean looked back at him, and the completely empty look in his eyes worried Sam. Then he noticed Dean's nose twitch before he looked down at the cheeseburger.

"Aw man," he grinned, forgetting everything to pick it up and shove as much of it in his mouth as humanly possible.

Sam relaxed. A little.

Dean bit off much more than he should have been able to chew, but that in itself was nothing knew and it hardly mattered. He munched and wrestled with the mouthful until he had it where he wanted it. He managed to swallow half of it before grinning at Sam with half a mouth.

"This is the best cheeseburger _ever_!" he managed, and Sam smiled.

"I can only imagine," he sighed, sitting back and reaching for his coffee. As he administered milk and stretched over for a spoon, a faint but nevertheless audible sound started up. He turned and stared at his brother with a menace he hadn't used since the last demon they had hunted.

Before he had died.

Dean had his eyes closed, his face a picture of happiness. His jaw was moving slowly and he was moaning to himself in pleasure.

Sam looked with understandable concern at the middle-aged woman sat next to his brother at the counter. She did not look amused to hear a grown man make such suggestive noises over a cheeseburger. Sam reached out and thumped his brother's arm.

"Ow!" he protested, his mouth still half full. But when his eyes flew open he found Sam looking back at him with _Angry Eyes_ mixed with _Mortification Scowl Number Three_. "Ah," he managed through a mouth of food, "looks like Snappy McScowly thinks it's time to go." He stuffed the remaining parts of the cheeseburger into his mouth and slid off his stool smartly. "Wew?" he mouthed past the food, his hands out in expectation.

Sam threw money on the counter before grabbing his coffee and downing it in one. It burned as it went down, but he refused to show it. Instead he nodded gratefully to the waitress, grabbed his wayward brother before he could draw some innocent bystander into a conversation, and marched him out of the diner as he munched and despatched the rest of his cheeseburger.

They reached the Impala before Sam let go of his arm tersely, shoving him toward the door and slapping at the back of his head petulantly.

"What was that for?" Dean whined, the tone so unexpected it made his younger brother look up.

"For being a jerk. Now get in the car," Sam hissed.

"Who's being a jerk?" Dean protested, hurt, and it made Sam stop dead. "You're the one shoutin' and thumpin' and being the grumpiest kill-joy in the state, _bitch_!"

"So this isn't some stupid prank of yours?" Sam demanded, leaning over the roof with an arm. "You're not doing this purely to torture me?"

"Doing what?" Dean wailed, sounding remarkably like a small child who considers himself hard done-by, his hands out wide in what appeared to be honest confusion.

Sam studied him, and an awful, awful feeling began to seep into his heart.

_I know that tone of voice. Haven't heard it in… too many years, but I know it alright_. He huffed to himself, his eyebrows fighting with each other for holding onto their sternness or flipping over into concern. _He really has no idea he's pissing me off,_ he realised. _Something really did happen to him. Wherever he's been and whatever he's been doing, he's having trouble being him again. And now he's free-falling. Because maybe… maybe it really is him…_

Dean's brows were knitted together like a stormy Monday morning, and Sam huffed out a long sigh of regret.

"Look, man…" He looked down at the roof of the car, then back at his older brother. "Just get in the car. Now you've eaten - again - we need to find somewhere to sleep."

"Ok, man, just calm down," Dean said defensively, and Sam frowned to himself.

_Does he have to sound like he's twelve again?_ he protested, then just decided to let it go.

"Fine," he allowed. "Just please, get in the car."

Dean struggled with something for a moment longer, scratching his head. Then he shrugged, letting it all go.

"Ok," he sighed, apparently past caring, pulling out the keys and unlocking his door. He wanged it open and slid in, leaning over to unlock Sam's door. "Get in, Bigfoot. I'll try not to offend your delicate sensibilities as I belch along to Kansas."

"You know what, man? Today I don't even think I'd mind if it was Metallica," Sam sighed.

Dean grinned as he gunned the engine, listening to the melodious purr and feeling it tickle all the way down his spine. He reached down and turned on the cassette player before leaning over to rifle through the glovebox. He found his box of tapes and shoved it at Sam.

"Find me some Bon Scott," he grinned, putting her into Drive and starting to pull out of the car park.

"You mean Brian Johnson," Sam corrected, lifting up a tape. "Bon Scott died."

"Yeah he did - still writes music though. Just for the lifts," he added.

"What are you talking about?" Sam asked wearily, opening the cassette box and removing the recorded magic.

"I… don't know," Dean admitted, a cheery smile doing nothing to cover his blatant discomfort. "Bon Scott. Bon Scott…" he mused to himself. "Just the name seems… like really… I think I knew him," Dean struggled, a decidedly puzzled look on his face.

"Oh yeah?" Sam challenged, pushing the cassette into the player. "Before he died? When you were like eighteen months old or something?"

"Naw - must have been when I wasn't real," Dean breathed to himself. "That's why I can't remember."

Sam just sat back, clutched the box in his lap, and said nothing.

* * *

Sam opened his eyes in the darkness, looking up at the ceiling of the motel room and huffing. The unease, the quite discomfort, it was all so much darker and harder to ignore when the lights were out.

He sat up in bed slowly, eyeing the room and looking to his left instinctively. His big brother was asleep in the bed under the window. The moonlight was coming through from under the bottom of the thick curtains, casting pale silver light over the side of his peaceful face.

_But it's not right_, he made himself think. _It's not. How am I supposed to just welcome him back, as if nothing's happened? He wouldn't trust me if I came back, so--_

The realisation hit him with incredible momentum and his breath caught in his throat.

_But he did._

_He brought me back, he sold his soul to get me back. And forever afterwards, he's believed it's me and not some demon trick Old Yellow Eyes set up for us. He's never flinched, or faltered, or considered the possibility that I could be… something I'm not. I mean, Jeez, he's always so goddamn sure it's really me - he's more sure than I am. Doesn't he deserve the same benefit of the doubt from me?_

Sam got up silently, creeping over and sitting on the end of his brother's bed. He lifted his feet onto the blankets, pulling his knees up to his chin and wrapping his arms round his legs. He sat and watched him, taking in the way he was spread out on his front as if not using any small portion of the mattress was simply unacceptable. He realised he was timing his brother's breathing and made himself shake off the worry and stop it. He just watched.

_No, not the benefit of the doubt. Trust. And my help. Cos like it or not, big bro, you _do_ need my help on this one. You went to Hell for me. Least I can do is help you get your head straight best I can._

Dean stirred, his arms under the pillow shifting slightly as he mumbled something.

_I am never admitting I sat here like this_, he thought, shaking his head slightly. _Four days. Just four awful, hellish days. And now he's back and he's mostly 'real' Dean again. Mostly._

He paid sharp attention as his brother shifted uneasily, his head moving up the pillow suddenly.

"Mmm-hmm-mm-fff," he mumbled. "Michael - mmff - said…"

Sam froze.

_Michael… He mentioned him before. Could it actually be the Archangel Michael? Seriously? So that means he wasn't in Hell the whole time. Or was he? Did he just think that he wasn't…_

Dean tensed suddenly and Sam watched.

"Xaphan… meet again… hurt more than…"

_What's a 'zaffan'? I am so checking on any names that fit any possible spelling of that word tomorrow._

Dean gave a great sigh, rolling onto his left side suddenly, his back to his brother. Then he fell onto his back and his eyes blinked open. "Sammy, get off ma feet," he mumbled, raising a hand to rub an eye.

"You're _not_ asleep then," he observed, feeling heat in his face. He went to move but Dean let his hand drop from his face.

"Wait," he said quickly.

Sam realised two stark emeralds were watching him in the moonlight. Just the way they regarded Sam - the way they took everything in but gave nothing out - suddenly were more like his brother than he had ever seen.

_It really is him_, Sam smiled to himself. _And the world has suddenly changed._

"You don't have to do this, Sam. You don't have to make sure I'm still here," he ground out, his voice rough from sleep. Or something else. "I'll still be here in the morning."

"Who says I'm watching you? I'm scared of the dark, I wanted to sit in the moonlight," he smiled cheekily. _Damn! He got me! He never said 'watching', I did!_

"Yeah? Well take this then," Dean said, falling back to his front and fishing under his pillow.

"Aw man! The Bowie knife? Seriously - you still have that under there?" Sam teased.

"Old habits die hard, Mick Jagger," Dean allowed. _Hard enough to feel the pain_, his mind added automatically. He pulled the large knife out and then rolled himself onto his back again. "Here. Keep it."

"And what about you and your Precaution Complex?" he grinned.

"Don't need it any more," Dean admitted.

"Really?" Sam asked, twirling it in his hand. "Why's that?"

"Got me something else," Dean yawned, putting his hands behind his head and settling down, his eyes slowly closing.

"So come on then, what?" Sam asked. Dean didn't answer for some moments and Sam tutted. He leaned over and poked at the blanket over his chest with the butt of the knife. One eye opened and Dean looked at his little brother. Sam eyed him. "What do you have?"

"Summin you don't," Dean muttered. "Now let me sleep."

"What? What do you have?" Sam goaded, tapping him with the end of the knife handle.

"Quit it," Dean sniffed irritably.

"Tell me what you've got," Sam said simply, poking repeatedly. Dean's other eye opened and he put a hand up to make a grab for the knife. Sam was too fast for him, yanking it out of his way. Dean huffed and tried again, but Sam waved it around out of reach quickly, jabbing it into his chest at every opportunity with a wicked grin.

"Stop that!" Dean growled.

"When you tell me what you've got," Sam teased, stabbing.

"Sammy! Don't make me kick your ass," Dean protested, and Sam realised his older brother was genuinely out of patience.

"Alright," he sighed, letting the knife rest in his lap. "I'm just… I can't believe you're really here, man."

"I know," Dean sighed, wiping his face over slowly. "Me neither."

"Are you going to tell me what happened?" Sam dared quietly.

"Only if I want your nightmares coming back," he said, trying a small smirk. It did something to alleviate the understated unease on Dean's face, but nothing to improve the weary look in his eyes.

"Fine," Sam shrugged, pretending it was unimportant. "Just wondered what the girls looked like in Heaven," he added with a cheeky smile that showed too many teeth, and yet was completely endearing because of it.

Dean frowned at him in confusion, his eyebrows quirked up and his mouth a small thoughtful 'o' shape.

"Who says I went to Heaven?" he asked. "You really think those white winged dues would let _me_ in a joint like that?"

"Yeah," Sam smiled, poking him in the chest again.

"You gotta have big-ass wings to get in there," Dean smiled, but then his face froze.

"What?" Sam asked softly.

"Big-ass wings," Dean murmured, thinking. "Big-ass wings…"

Sam watched him, then tried a different tack. "Bobby reckons something _reeeeal_ big went down and Michael himself came to get you out," he said cheerfully. _Come on, think I'm yanking your chain and let something slip - anything._

"Yeah?" Dean asked, his tongue running over his lower lip in thought.

"Yeah. What do you think?" he prompted.

"I think…"

His voice trailed off in thought, and Sam realised he was not going to get an answer, even if Dean could even think how to phrase one. He poked him, flashing another childish grin.

"I think that if you stick me with that handle one more time, seriously Sammy, you're gonna be sleeping with it stuck up where the sun ain't never supposed to shine," Dean said firmly.

Sam couldn't help it; he chuckled really quite loudly.

"What are you so happy about, Laughing Boy?" Dean asked, but he was smiling now. It was a secret smile, exactly like the one he had used at just ten years old, shushing six year old Sammy the night they had colluded to steal the cookie jar from the top of a father-guarded fridge at 11pm.

"Just that… you sound more like you, Dean. All day today, you've been getting more and more like you again," he admitted._ I didn't want to see it before, I didn't want to let myself believe. But I'm going to have to take it on faith, cos right now that's all I've got._ He frowned as he remembered his brother saying the exact same thing, but couldn't place where or when.

"Great," Dean shrugged, apparently past caring. But Sam knew him better.

"So come on then, what have you got?"

"If I tell you, can I go back to sleep?" he asked wearily.

"If you tell me, I won't even ask you if you got a female angel's phone number," he chuckled.

Dean pushed himself to sit up slowly, eyeing him and shaking his head in wonderment. "Fine. I got me an idea that needs putting into action. And nothing's going to stop me getting it done - especially not some spirit, werewolf, or small-time creature. There, that do you?"

Sam studied his face in the moonlight, trying to define if it were smug or confident. "What's this idea?" he asked slowly.

"First thing in the morning, we find this demon's sorry ass, summon it, kick seven shades of shit out of his nine circles of solitary Hell carcass, and find the passage in Latin that reduces him to pot-plant food," he growled decisively.

"Lilith?" he guessed.

"Are you warming that Stanford brain of yours on ma blankets?" Dean asked sarcastically. "I said 'he', ass-hat."

"Oh," Sam nodded.

"No, it's not Lilith. But she is going to get what's coming to her, don't you worry about that," he said comfortably. "Someone else."

"Seriously?" Sam havered, unsure whether his brother was in one of his metaphorical or sarcastic moods.

"Seriously," Dean nodded, waving a hand at his younger brother to move back. Sam shifted and Dean pushed himself back under the blankets warmly, putting his hands behind his head and getting comfortable. He drew in a deep, relaxing breath, and sighed it all out slowly.

"So who is it?"

"Someone else," he said before his eyes closed. "Some son of a bitch I owe some serious button-pushing payback."

"Button-pushing," Sam stated flatly. "What buttons did he push?"

"Only the ones that secured his end," Dean sighed, before he appeared to drift off to sleep.

Sam stared at him for a long time, wishing he knew just what was going on in his brother's head. Then he looked at the knife, grinned, and got off the bed slowly.

He shuffled back over to his bed in the darkness cautiously. He climbed in and secreted the hunting tool under his own pillow.

"Dean?" he asked suddenly, sounding very amused.

"Whut?" he grunted drowsily.

"Dean?"

"Whut?" he snapped, his voice testy.

"Dean!"

"Whut!"

"'Night," he said cheekily.

Silence returned to the room for nearly ten minutes. Then:

"Sammy?" Dean asked quietly.

"Yeah?"

"Sammy?"

"Stop it."

"Sammy?"

"What!" Sam protested.

"Stop pestering me and get some sleep."

"You're an ass."

"And you suck," Dean shot back, but knew he couldn't suppress the chuckle he could feel bubbling up.

"Hey, everything I needed to know about sucking, I learnt from my big brother," Sam grinned in the darkness.

"Sam?"

"What now!"

"You're pretty awesome," Dean said quietly. There was a long pause.

"And so's having you back," he managed. "And maybe… maybe you, sometimes."

"I know," Dean grinned arrogantly, and Sam laughed out loud. "'Night Sammy boy," Dean added.

Sam smiled, closing his eyes and pulling the blankets up round him.

There was a barely concealed chuckle from the other side of the pitch room. The wind whistled through the slight gap in the window frame, rustling the curtains. There was the occasional sound of someone shifting under warm blankets. Presently there were the gentle sounds of two different brands of slight snoring.

The rest was silence.

**THE END**

* * *

When I started this as a one-shot, I had no idea I would get so attached to it and it would grow into 8 chapters. It's also the longest one I've written for SPN. Go figure, as the phrase goes...

I'm really sad to see this one end. However, all good things, and all that.

Besides, I have another off-the-waller coming soon.

insert wicked grin here


End file.
